Passive
by Red-Bullet
Summary: Started as a one shot in the dark. Sprouted legs and there you go. Spike and Faye and a push into the past. Rotating POVs, post Real Folk Blues. Language and some sexuality.
1. Passive

-1Okay, here we go. I know this is seeming a little directionless, but I'm having a blast writing it. Again, again, again, thank you so much for the awesome comments I'm getting on this. The only reason I expanded it to begin with was because of some awesome feedback, so trust me, it really does help.

-Red Bullet

Passive Chapter One:

It wasn't her feet I heard, it was the blanket she was dragging with her that caught my ears. The thing was half rotten and she was bundled inside of it padding down the hall and out into the common room where I was camped.

In all honesty, Faye looked like shit.

Her hair was sticking up in ways I would have laughed at if there weren't exhaustion bruises under her eyes and a more than noticeable limp to her slow, sleepy gait. I haven't been around for a few days so whatever it was that happened had to have happened just recently and I wonder at the fact that Jet hadn't mentioned it when I got in. He's usually ready with a warning when he thinks I'm gonna act an ass towards the brat or when she's strung out over something or when he just doesn't want to hear us go at it.

If I didn't know better I'd say he liked having her around.

She finally comes to a stop in front of the coffee table mid grab for the remote when she stops and looks at me dumbly realizing I'm actually awake and an 'o' pulls into form her mouth.

She looks different without makeup smeared across her lips. In this very instant, clean faced and wide eyed with the surprise of finding me, Faye looks all the world like a teenager. A seen-a-lot-of-shit-had-a-bad-week-my-dog-just-died-and-my-woolongs-run-out kind of teenager, but still. She looks too damned young to be participating in this life.

It's always strange when I think of the dichotomy of Faye's age. She's a relic. A Pre-Luna fossil who traveled through time and over great distances with the singular aim of getting the hell under my skin. But for all intents and purposes she really is a 20-something girl with all the bluster and insecurity that comes with it. She was just put on pause for 54 years.

Few years back I was in the same place with the same bad attitude and the same overcompensating habits. And now look at me. I'm pushing 30 and I've learned the secret to life's Great Mystery. No, the answer is not '42', my friends, it's learn not to really give a damn, and if you're dumb enough, like me, that you actually do, pretend you don't.

You'd be surprised how well that works.

At least I think it does.

Either way, it's not the point, the point is Faye is still standing there, hunched over, mid grab and making a fair imitation of a fish face. So of course, there's only one thing to say.

"You look like shit, Valentine."

I expect her to roll her eyes, but she disappoints me and without missing a beat she snatches the remote and follows it with "Flattery only gets you halfway, Spiegel" I laugh but she doesn't, instead she just falls back into the armchair without further comment, taking the blanket with her and turning the TV on. We both flinch at the offensive volume of late night commercials and she pounds at the mute button before chucking the remote back to the table.

"Something on your mind, Romani?" She shakes her head and hides a yawn behind her hand. She's full of it. Faye's a fluent liar, but you can't shit a bullshitter, not one of my sterling caliber at least and that ain't just pride talking. But even knowing this, I decide to be the nice guy and not pry it out of her.

She's not even paying attention to the show and I'm not even sure what the show is supposed to be. Her eyes are unfocused and detached from anything resembling attention. Jet calls it a thousand yard stare and I just call it unsettling.

"Well, if you don't mind" I prompt and grab the remote flipping and settle when I find a semi hard core porn channel. Truth be told, I just wanna get a reaction out of her. That and I'm more than a little curious if I can get Faye to blush.

Watching porn with Spike. Now that's family fun.

She does snap out of it, but she's not scolding me and to my very slight disappointment she's not taking in the show. Instead her eyes are locked on the dog-eared and trashed book on the table.

"You read Pynchon, Spike?"

"Well, why wouldn't I?" I had no idea where this new vein of conversation might be heading.

"I don't know, just didn't expect it is all." There's no fight in her voice and I'll hedge my bets to say she's genuinely curious. Maybe she's a fan of the guy, I don't know.

Or maybe that crush that neither of us acknowledge is getting the better of her.

"Heh, you saying I'm not well read, Faye?" I meant it for a joke, but she's not perking up. Still just staring at the damned book. And I go back to pretending to stare at the tits and ass bouncing around in all their digitally projected glory between the twin prongs of the vid display.

"Have you read the other one? I liked it more than that one."

She's still staring at the book, the torn up blanket pulled almost over the back of her head and dangling little threads into her face. "We need to get you a new blanket."

"Huh?" her attention is finally directed at me, eyes questioning and suddenly I'm not sure what to do with my new found, hard fought audience.

But you know what? Insults always work.

"Blanket almost looks as bad as you do."

"I didn't come out here to fight, Spike."

"What did you come out here for? Doubt it was because you wanted to see if this chick here will take it in the stink" That was vulgar, even for me, but I'm getting frustrated with how benign this situation is. Faye's usually tossing barbs at me with ease and as fast as I can think of new ones to throw back. It's how we show we care, as it were. Otherwise, we wouldn't bother acknowledging the other's existence.

If I didn't know better, I'd say I liked having her around, too.

She cocks her head a bit before smoothing her brow again. "Guess I just wanted a little distraction, is all." And then she's slipping back into her directionless staring.

"Fair enough." I turn the channel to something a little less on the anatomy lesson side, the volume still muted, and make a point in my head to grab Jet tomorrow and find out what the hell exactly happened while I was away.

We stay like that for a while before I think of something else to say, but her eyes are already closed and she's out for the count. I swallow the snarky comment and everything else in mind and close my eyes, too.


	2. Aegis

I'm a sucker for a stray and that's a damned truth. Took Spike in when I knew he was gonna be more trouble than not. Took Faye in when I knew full and well that she and Spike would either end up fighting or fucking or both. Took in the dog and Ed, too. Granted the last two were true and loyal to me at just about every turn. The other dingbats were a pair of cats, the two of them. Fickle and near unreadable. And always bellyaching for their next meal.

And even before all of them, I took in Alisa. She'd been struggling her way through that under-college of hers when we'd hooked up and I'd been more than happy to let her move in. It was nice having someone to come home to and it still is. Probably where I developed this nasty little habit of mine. I'm well down the path to becoming the crazy cat lady of lore.

Least the current bunch shows back up when they decide to dip out on me, though we're still short one dog and one high grade hacker, but I keep hoping after those two, too. Part of the joy of Ed and Ein was the fact they're both so damned easy to please. Pay 'em a little mind, serve 'em a little dinner and you got yourself a friend for life. If only I could work out how to make everything else in my life so simple.

I already know trouble is coming when I can actually hear Spike shuffling around. As awkward as the boy looks, he does hold more than a little means in the way of grace and stealth. But here he is shucking around like a damned tap dancer. Sammy Davis, Jr. or some such shit. I'm sure whatever his deal is it's just going to translate into a headache for me.

His head is already in the fridge and his skinny ass pointing out beyond the door as he rummages for a snack he knows damned well isn't going to be in there. Which reminds me, when we finally pull this boat dirtside I really need to get to stocking up the pantry again. Maybe I'll even surprise the two kids who call themselves cowboys and put a little genuine bovine in the fridge this time. Faye surprised me with the guy we just hauled in in that it was so last minute and she got it done. Bovine. Definitely some bovine.

"Come on, Spike. The fridge doesn't need to be aired out like that."

"What the hell is up with Faye?" That came out of nowhere. No. That's a lie, I walked in on the both of them camped out in the common with the TV still on this morning. Should have figured he'd have caught whiff of how off the girl has been last couple of days. She's been all but a non-entity since before we pushed off of Callisto. That's saying something. The kid is a bundle of firecrackers with a compulsively self igniting fuse. I'd never admit it out loud, but it is kind of endearing how riled up she can get and then go back to being calm and pleasant as a sunny fucking day. Love her or hate her, under normal circumstances, you always know she's in the room. Except of course lately doesn't seem to be resembling normal circumstance none.

"What are you talking about, Spike?" He finally gives up his quest for whatever it was he was hoping was in the fridge and chucks it shut and stands up straight. Or as straight as Spike ever stands, which isn't very.

"You know damned well what I'm talking about. She was acting weird all night. What the hell happened while I was gone? It was only three days and neither of you is dead, so what gives?" I've got to hand it to the girl, even when she ain't saying as much as a 'boo' she can get under that boy's skin. Probably even more so when she is being quiet. If I were any sort of a lesser man I'd make kissy faces at him and suggest he just get it over with and make a move on her.

But I'll have you know I'm a gentleman of superlative character. No matter how much shit I might want to stir for a change.

"Look, that whole memory thing, it's bothering her, she's still all muddled up even with some of it coming back. She ain't sleeping well." That was as diplomatic as possible, I suppose. True enough as well.

Spike just sets his face in a scowl and shakes his head. "No. That was going on before I took off and she wasn't all…I don't know. She wasn't all out of it like this. She ain't sore I went to Ven City without her, is she? The casino there sucks, she would have hated it."

"Ha!" I can't help but laugh at the borderline hope the little idiot has in his voice. Those two probably derive more joy out of trying to tease jealousy out of the other one than all their other vices combined. "You wish, bud. After you went off on your little weekend bender, we picked up a bounty, well, she did at any rate, which is gonna feed you this month, I might add. I picked her up and we came back to the Bebop."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, well, we ain't exactly leading exciting lives here, Spike-o." Even he can't pass the opportunity to smirk at the complicated irony of the statement. Plenty of people sign up to become cowboys because they think bounty hunting is gonna be all adventure and adrenaline and paychecks. They're dead wrong about the paychecks, but the excitement part is pretty true, at least it is when you can find your mark. However, truth be told, after you've been doing this a while, when it stops being atypical, when it starts just being your life, you kind of forget that it is what others, that 'normal' types would consider this all to be a slightly risky undertaking as far as life career choices go.

"And that's where she got the limp?" I nod. The fucker got her pretty good in the thigh with a knife just before she put him down. Bruised a rib or two also, I think, but she'd brushed it off when I suggested it and offered to buy me a drink at the bar she'd ponied up in while she waited for me to pick her up. "But that's it? Nothing else? He do anything to her?"

"Other than the knife in her leg? No. Though I'm sure he wasn't singing her sonnets about her delicate features as she was cuffing him."

His scowl just deepens and he pushes his back up against the wall and feigns casual examination of the floor or his feet. "Just doesn't make any sense." Isn't that just the sweetest thing you ever did see? Spike's worried about her. I resist the urge to taunt and choose instead to be helpful and come clean.

"There was one thing." Spike's already got his eyes zeroed back on me and I suppose there's no back stepping on this one. "When I got there, to the bar she was at, she was already talking to someone." To Spike's credit, if this little fact bothered him, he didn't let on.

"What were they talking about?"

"That's just it. I don't know. They were speaking some other language. Russian, maybe? Something Slavic. I don't know. But she was fine when she left for the bounty, wasn't by the time I picked her up. Guy left after she noticed I was there she seemed happy to see me, or happy to be away from the other guy, either way I got the impression they knew each other from before. That's the only thing that was out of the norm."

"Faye speaks Russian?"

"Yeah, didn't know that myself. Didn't know she had friends other than us either."

"We're Faye's friends?"

"Don't be an ass." He gives a guilty shrug and tosses me a smile that I'm sure charms panties off of pretty, young things. However, I'm not a pretty, young thing. I'm Jet Black. And as much as I might love the guy, I'm not going to let him bad mouth her just for the sake of it. Call it my own skewed idea of protecting her, but I do it for Spike when Faye acts up, too.

"I know, I know. Sorry. But, yeah, that is really weird." He shoves a hand in his pocket and one in the wasp's nest he calls hair before letting it drop back to his side. "She didn't mention who he was?"

"She didn't seem too eager to offer up information about it and I don't pry into your two's business unless you want me there. Try to keep that as a rule."

He volunteered a more sincere smile this time "Yeah, you do, Jet." He was already turning for the door. "Thanks for that, by the by." And he melts back into the hallway the way he came and I hope to hell he isn't off to harass that poor girl about what I told him. I don't wanna have to be the one that cleans up the mess she's liable to make of his skull.


	3. Slopes and Hopes

Just want to say thank you for those who have commented. Really means a lot! Okay, I'm not sure about how I handled this chapter so, please, tell it to me honest. Oh, and in this Faye tends to favour the f-bomb. It's been a stressful week. Cut the girl some slack.

Thanks, Red Bullet

**Passive: Chapter Three, Slopes and Hopes**

I'm a compulsive bather. Afraid I just can't help myself. Then again, if that's the worst of my qualities then I'm an okay person. Too bad for the boys it's not. There's plenty bad you could say about me. Probably more bad than good. Well, it is what it is and all that.

My mother was a compulsive bather, too. Would rather lock herself up and sink in some hot water than pay any heed to the little brat she didn't want that represented everything in what she considered a shit marriage. Woman didn't even like touching me much. Pretty much just left me to my father and my brothers from what I recall.

It's still kind of fucked how mixed up my memories are. Either way, none of it is anything I feel much like paying attention to at the moment.

Right now I'm more than content to soak in the tub no matter how much the hole in my thigh is stinging. Fucking jackass, Alyns. You were worth every damned woolong and then some. Fucking hole in my leg. Thing's gonna scar, too. I have to resist picking at the yellowish med-foam seal Jet gave me for it. Even with the plug the soap still smarts around the edges, but not enough to get me out of the bath just yet. So instead I just stare at the ugly, hardened foam that's staring me back. They didn't have things like this when I was a kid.

Didn't have a lot of these type things when I was a kid. But here I am, living on a spaceship with a guy with a mechanical arm and another one with a bionic eye. And me? I'm a chick who sat in cold sleep for over half a century and was basically reassembled like humpty-fucking-dumpty. Guess All the King's Men were having a lucky day back in '68.

We'll be setting down on Io in less than eight hours, which isn't nearly enough distance between me and Callisto as I'd like, but it'll do in a pinch. Then it's off to Ganymede for what Jet promises is a break, which, again, still isn't enough distance between Callisto and whoever might still be lurking around down there. I seriously don't know why Jet insists on stopping at Io. I don't care how hard those air scrubbers work in those domes, the sulfur makes it smell like one perpetual fart. It's terrible. Why anyone would have anything to do with the place other than industry is quite beyond me. Place is always vomiting up lava everywhere and the dirt has the same colour as bile. Can't believe they're trying to force that into being a draw for tourists.

Guess if it worked for Hawaii's volcanoes they figure it'll work out here. But Hawaii had flowers and pretty little birds and surfing to add to the whole 'holy crap, nature wants us dead!' atmosphere. Then again, you can't even surf anywhere on Earth these days what with what's left of the moon busy trying to kill you. Just ain't safe anywhere on the surface. Any of the 'oceans' on the other rocks are generally just overgrown lakes and even then they're all inside atmo controlled domes with no wind, 'cept for Mars.

And let's face it, Martians are more concerned with how to kill each other than what might make for an enjoyable sunny day pastime. Just look at Spike. Boy ain't happy unless someone's got a gun pointed at him. He considers a really fun day to be blowing up the headquarters of crime factions.

And they say I need to be analyzed.

Point of fact, I probably do need to be. Maybe even get myself one of those life coaches or something. 'No, Faye, soda isn't an appropriate breakfast. No, Faye, gambling away hard earned money is a bad thing. No, Faye, those colours clash. Wear something else.' Especially when you consider how thoroughly fucked the last few days have been I could use a chaperon. Or a body guard. All that definitely isn't something I want to be thinking about right now, though.

I'll think about it tomorrow. Or something. Promise.

Damnit, how the fuck did this happen? Why? I just want to be left to my semi-law abiding self and thank you very much, have a nice day and thanks for coming out.

Men are going to be the death of me.

If not this precious little mess, then it'll be Spike. Now that's a boy that'll get a girl killed. Another girl killed. I bite my lip as soon as I form the thought. That's not fair. I don't know the whole story and he didn't put the bullet through her spine. I never did have the common sense to shut the fuck up, did I?

He's different now. Well, that was to be expected, but I wasn't expecting him to be this kind of different. Fucker's downright pleasant half the time. Still an ass who has his face buried in the sofa cushion more hours in the day than he's awake. Still sucking down food like he's a Hoover stuck with it's switch on and still spitting out insults left and right, but I suspect those are just signs of life when it comes to him. But still. There's a new levity to it, which normally I'd find just fine in a man if I wasn't dealing with so much garbage in my own head.

I really need to figure out what to do. This isn't going to go away. They're not going to go away. And it's pathetic to keep hoping it away like I have been. If wishes did any good I still wouldn't remember a damned thing about my past.

Fuck, when did the water get so cold?


	4. Pretty with a Pistol

Two in one night! All hail the miracle that is caffeine. Thanks to Oryx & Crake for the translation verification. Keep the comments coming if you could. I have an ego to service.

Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop still belongs to people who never were me and never will be me.

**Passive: Chapter Four, Pretty with a Pistol**

"Chto noven'kogo?" That got her attention. I'm standing in her doorway staring down at her from her perch on the workbench stool. She's staring back all surprised and I'm sure I'm smirking like the ass that I am cause I called her out on a secret. Faye's hands are greased and dirty and hovering over her half stripped Glock.

She slowly dropped her hands and wiped them on a pair of torn up jeans I'd never seen her in. "S kakih eto por ty govorish' po-russki?" She knew she'd caught me well and good when I could only answer with a spooked look, but she smirked and went back to pumping the lubed up patch through the barrel of the gun. "So, Spike, how long did you practice that opener there?"

"No more than hour. Tops." Faye isn't wearing a headband and her long bangs are bowing in to brush her lashes and I can't see her eyes, let alone read them. At least not until she holds the barrel up to the bench light and lifts her head up to check for rust. As passive as her face is at the moment, her eyes are brewing with something that more than a little has my curiosity peaked.

Faye replaces the barrel against the recoil spring and pulls it back, testing it, before sliding it forward again and replacing it on the cratered surface of the workbench. This is familiar territory for any one of us on this ship. Serve your weapon so it'll serve you. Samurai with booming swords. Now, that's an snatch of imagery that Jet would like.

There's a new grip on the table and I pick it up all too aware that her eyes are tracking my hands. "Replacing it?" She nods and goes back to greasing and wiping the metal of the receiver. "You should let me do it for you." See? I'm a nice guy. I'm helpful, even.

"No offence, Spike, but I've had this piece a long time before I ever met you. Can handle a new grip just fine" She's affected that same non-combative tone from last night that lacks all the haut, ego and machismo I readily associate with the enigma that is Faye Valentine. She just keeps on swirling synthetic lubricant on the gun metal before making a reach for the tool kit.

"Doesn't matter." I shrug and put the grip back. It's a good grip. Too small for my hand, but I suspect it's just perfect for Faye. "It's a sub-compact," I look down at the top of her head before tossing the final blow, "it's a girl's gun."

And before I know it she's got those green sparklers of hers turned on me and a wicked little grin licking at her lips "Well, I was going to get a Deagle a while back, but I didn't want to make you insecure, what with that wee little Jericho of yours. I only had your interests at heart, Spike. Didn't want to go an emasculate you or nothing." And I'm so happy I could kiss the bitch. That's our Valentine, folks. There she is! With a smile and a smart assed comment that goes right to the jugular, or crotch as it were. This is how things are supposed to be between us. I say something, she says something right back, it's all fun and games and then we gripe over who has to pay for the beers. "Hand me that?"

"Yeah." I hand her the grip and she goes to work on the handle with deft little fingers. "So who's the guy Jet caught you flirtin' up?" Faye pauses what she's doing and puffs a couple pieces of dark hair out of her eyes and reaches for the cigarette that's balanced on a soda can turned makeshift ashtray without answering me. "Ex-boyfriend? If it is, you should let us know, since they seem to cause us trouble. I'd just like to be prepared, is all." She wraps her lips around the filter and sucks, all the while sizing me up. "What? Not gonna tell me?"

She rolls her eyes and offers a "No."

"'No', what? No, he's not an ex? Or 'no', you're not going to tell me?"

"No, he's not an ex and no I'm not gonna tell you who he is. It doesn't matter who he is. He was just someone who chatted me up in a bar before my ride showed. It was Callisto, are you really shocked that a guy wanted to talk to a girl?"

"He just happened to guess right that you spoke Russian?"

"That's right." Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. I don't know what bothers me more. The fact that he might be an ex or the fact that he might wasn't just some guy who stopped to hit on a pretty girl. You know. I'm not a needy guy. Swear. I don't ask for a lot, I don't expect a lot. But when I decide I want something I tend to be a big fan of instant gratification and what I want right now is the truth.

"Whatever." I'm all itchy to move and I don't know exactly what it is I'm wanting to do, though the thought of throttling her does pass in mind. "We'll be landing on Io in a couple hours and I'm going out. You're coming with."

"Why? Because you said so?"

I bend down close to that little heart-shaped face of hers and offer my most fetching of grins, "Can you think of any better reason?"

She offers the same caliber smile right back to me, "You're a jackass."

"So I've been told. Make sure you wear actual pants. Wouldn't want anyone to think you're offering or anything." Faye's head snaps back up, a pout smearing her lips and I step backwards and into the hallway and I can't hold back the bark of laughter when her fist smashes into the door's control and it groans and wheezes to a close in front of me.

I'm going to find out what the hell this is going on.


	5. Ambit

Mary? You're a doll and I love you to pieces. Thanks so much for your comments. This next piece I dedicate to you.

Disclaimer: Bebop belongs to a whole mess of people who aren't me.

**Passive: Chapter Five, Ambit**

I haven't been kind to this body. I've got a damned Vader arm and a support girdle under my eye from cracking my orbital bone and a scar from nearly getting said eye spilt open in the process. I smoke and I drink and I ain't exactly maintaining healthy eating habits.

Then again, nobody on this boat seems too keen on the idea of good food vs. bad food, unless it's to claim my cooking is bad. Faye has the biggest sweet tooth I've ever seen and Spike goes through food like he hasn't seen the stuff since he fell out of his momma.

But ain't none of that the point, and yes, there was indeed a point. And it was that I haven't exactly been gentle on myself. And my body's been busy letting me know as much. I can already feel the fatigue in my legs from the cartilage wearing down to scraps, chewing my knees to crab meat. My spine ain't offering up much in the way of anything that resembles the word 'limber' and my gut fusses with what I put in my mouth more than I'd like to admit.

So. Was it worth it? Did anything I ever do even amount to something meaningful to anyone? Presently, I'm left with a smart assed, back-talk-you-as-soon-as-look-at-you crew and the nightmare that is me trying to repair what's left of the Red Tail from a certain someone's efforts to pull another certain someone's dick out of the fire. It's been months and it's slow coming, but it'll just about break my heart if I have to keep seeing that girl look like she's in mourning every time she looks at the twisted up shreds of metal paneling and snapped directional prongs. Renews some of my urges to smack Spike upside the head.

No one's ever gonna sit in a coffee shop and debate my prodigious contributions to the clerisy or anything like that. No one will ever hold me to the realm and in comparison to Goethe or Jung or Nietzsche. Yeah, I've got a little thing going for the Germans. Maybe even a little hero worship. On a really honest day, a whole lot of envy, as well. But you know, no one's ever going to call me out to be a 'luminary of my field'. Especially, since my field is bounty hunting and just about nobody in this line of work gives anyone their just credit unless it's to themselves, even then it's usually inflated ego talking, rife with exaggerations of cash outs and hulking bandits.

Never been married. Never had any kids. Never wrote that Great Novel that I always wanted to. I'm balding, er, bald. Got nothing in the way of a retirement plan. My job is the very definition of 'hit and miss', and not to mention the fact that it's not very conducive to the whole staying the hell alive thing.

"Jet? Why are we going to Io?" It's Faye. She's crowded up in a corner of the doorway, arms crossed and holding her elbows, head cocked to the side in genuine curiosity. I stare hard at her for a minute and gag on the words before I finally get them out.

"Got word my mom died couple days ago. She was living on Io. Gotta take care of what's left to take care of." Her face falls with what I take for sympathy and she walks in and sits down next to me and I go back to my attempts at glaring at my plants. I'm really just trying to keep from crying and I'm surprised that having someone here and fessing up to what's going on is helping. I give myself a habitual head rub and breathe a chocked sigh.

It's out in the open. Mom's dead. The room feels like it's dipping and I change my focus to Faye's face. She's staring at the plants and then just as suddenly she's staring me right back.

"I'm sorry, Jet." Faye's got that skin colour of people who are not only pale to begin with, but have spent the last handful of years shipside not to mention 54 years prior to that locked up cold and dark in one of those ice couches. But right now she looks down right ashen and I wonder at it.

"How are those memories of yours coming?" I need distraction and I honestly want to know the answer to that. She breaks the stare with me and goes right back to the plants. I've never seen her look so small and I've never felt so awkward. We're a ship full of well adjusted and sterling specimens, aren't we?

Her hands are fussing with a tear in the jeans she's taken to favour lately and her eyes look like they're trying their damnedest to focus and I feel like punching something. Both over the situation with mom and healthcare systems and now that I've realized I might have exposed something hurtful for the poor fucked up kid.

'They're coming along." She finally answers, but it's shaky and unsure of itself and, not for the first time, I wonder just who the hell Faye Valentine is. It only takes her a fraction of a second to pull herself together and she gives me something in the way of a sweet and understanding smile. "We have more than enough cash to handle funeral arrangements. You do right by her." And then she goes for getting me to smile also, "Spike will eat noodles or he just won't eat."

"Won't eat? Good luck seeing that happen. You lemme know when he starts gnawing on his shoe, okay? Make sure he washes it first." and we're both laughing even though it was lame as far as insults and jokes go, but I think we both need to be laughing right now. Ain't enough of it going around and any excuse to at this point is more than plenty reason for either of us.

I'm not a 'giant of intellectuals' and I won't be. Sure as hell not what you'd call a polymath. But I got a boat and she's working for the most part. Got fuel in the tank, a little money in the pocket and a crew that I pretty damned well like more days than I don't.

And tomorrow I get to bury my momma.

Guess you could say I'm an okay guy.


	6. Home I'll Never Be

I just want to say thanks to all the comments I've gotten. It totally rocks my world to get so much encouragement, so keep it coming!

I realized a little belatedly that I never supplied a translation for the Russian I had them use a couple chapters back. Spike is bascially saying "what's up?" and Faye's response is "Since when do you speak Russian?" Sorry if anyone was left wondering.

And here come some hints...

**Passive: chapter six, Home I'll Never Be**

I didn't lie about being Roma. Not entirely, at any rate. My mother was, at one time at least. Daddy came across her somehow during one of his 'business' trips. Took a fancy to her and offered her whatever it was she wasn't getting with her family. Daddy was Gadjo. And that's the kind of thing that'll get you kicked out on your ass.

But she went ahead and did it. And for, my mother, there would never be any turning back. At first I bet she was pretty pleased with herself. Married to a wealthy man, whisked off to a foreign land, everything she wanted to but a request away. I'm sure it was awfully enchanting at first for someone who was raised in a slum in the middle of communism outside of Odessa. Being part of a hated ethnic group probably wasn't helping matters either.

But this wasn't anything the woman ever told me about. By the time I came along, her and daddy had fallen out with one another. Daddy could be fickle and mother had a temper.

When I was born, she refused to have anything to do with me. To her, I was _marimé_, I was polluted. Which suited the rest of the family just fine. As far as they were concerned, I belonged to them, not her. To them I wasn't Gadjo. I wasn't an outsider. I was Faye.

Sofia Tan became like some kind of ghost haunting our house. You'd hear sounds. Feel eyes watching you. Catch a swish of skirts but little more than that. The place was big enough and she was scarce enough that I would go days without a sighting. She'd lock herself up in her room. Even took meals there. By the time I was well into my teens I'd just accepted it for the normal state of things.

When I was young, though, I was stupid enough to think I could fix things. I told my always indulgent father I wanted to learn Russian. By the end of the week I had a teacher, a goal and a childish fantasy of a relationship with this woman I only knew by supplied facts from outside sources.

I'm a fast learner. It's the only way I could have survived waking up in this back-asswards futureland clusterfuck that I find myself in today. I came to in a place with revised science, a monumental and busy history gap and not a damned clue who the fuck I was. But here I am. Still alive. Still kicking. And by all means, I shouldn't be.

Anyway, I never went after much of anything the way I went after trying to conquer this language, her language. Funny thing is, I found myself loving it. I was a pretty directionless kid for the most part. My older half-brothers had roles to play. They belonged to the business every bit as much as they belonged to the family. Probably more so. But me? I was the baby and I was the girl. I was just family. I was reprieve from the other side of their lives. It allowed for a whole hell of a lot in the way of freedom. Pathetic part is I didn't have the drive for much of anything when I could have had everything. I had some passions. I had some friends. I had my brothers.

There wasn't any kind of pressing need to have more, be more. Guess it's still kind of the same story, except now I don't have a gentleman crook of a father to finance my whims.

Things stayed like that until this whole Russian idea had come along and I seized on it like a lush does a bottle of single malt. Sucking it down until I'd had my fill and grinning like a fool in the booze haze that follows.

This, the greatest accomplishment of my young and overly privileged life, proved to be one of my biggest let downs. I was more than competent in the language by the time I put it to the test and I was high in the way of prideful of it. And the second I cornered Sofia and opened my mouth and spoke in her mothertongue she hit me. Just like that. Pulled back and let me have it hard. Followed it with an eloquent shot of spit in my face.

Even back then I knew how to fight. You can't be raised by Tan men and not know how to toss a proper left and pound a fine kick. But at that very moment I was just too fucking shocked to do anything. It was my mother. And she was spitting on me and my attempt to give her a hard fought gift. What the hell are you supposed to do? I couldn't very well scissor kick her head. Well, I could have. I probably fucking should have. But I didn't. I didn't do much of anything.

Bitch of a messed up cunt.

The maid started screaming and raising hell and generally drawing a lot of attention to the fact that the mistress of the house was beating on Daddy's Little Girl.

I think that might have been one of the last times I ever saw her.

It's funny. All that terrible fucked up shit, and that's what I remember most. Even when my amnesia was at it's most terminal and debilitating, the word Romani stuck in my head, rattling around like beads in a baby toy.

I couldn't even remember my father's name until a few days ago when the guy at the bar outright said it, but all of that? That shit stain of an experience? That was the first to come banging back into focus and recall.

I'm a splendidly crap-tastic mess, huh?

Still can't figure out why exactly they sent in someone who speaks Russian. It could honestly be any number of reasons, but none I can think of are really all that satisfying. Could be they knew Jet was around somewhere and didn't want unwelcome ears being privy. Maybe they wanted to catch me off guard. Or the guy was just handy. Really no fucking clue on that one.

But being fluent helped when I first woke up, that's for damned sure. Early on, I pulled some cons over in the Red Moscow District in Tharsis. So I guess it wasn't a complete loss in the great scheme of things. Gotta stay true to those good ole' stereotypes, you know?

Now that I think about it, they might actually know about all that and maybe that's why. Fuck, there's no use in poking at the why. It doesn't fucking matter. It's just more shit I'm letting myself get distracted by.

Long time I kept wondering if your past is what makes me. If your life is just the summation of all your experiences and if you don't have that, if you have nothing, does that make you nothing? If the only thing that's ever happened to you was a whole heap of bad, does that make you bad, too?

Now that some of the pegs are starting to fit into their plugs I know that's a damned lie and I was a fucking idiot for thinking it. Spike had it right. Even if I didn't have my past, I had my future.

My past isn't back on Earth. My family isn't with Ryne and James and daddy. My past started four years ago and my family is comprised of Jet, Ed and the jackass balancing on the wheel faring of his mono in front of me.

I don't know how to explain that to either group of people. And herein lies my problem.

Spike's not wearing a shirt and he's sweating and grunting with his head tucked up in an access panel but he stops as soon as he realizes I'm here and pulls his head out. His smile just makes him look like the lecher I'm sure he truly is.

"Enjoying the view?" Smug jackass. I almost tell him as much, but I just don't have it in me right now. Instead I pull another drag off my smoke. They aren't our usual cigarettes, they're those sweet things that stink like burnt candy. They'll claw your lungs up if you enjoy em too much, but every once in a while isn't any harm. Of course, this is a chain smoker talking.

He wipes his forehead and the gear grease he leaves behind makes his hairline swirl funny. "Lemme?" He reaches for the kretek and I hand it over to him and while he steals a puff I lick my lips at the trace amounts of sugary oil the filter left behind. "Thanks," and he hands it back. Spike jumps down off the faring and even with the both of us standing at floor level he's at least a head taller than me. It's something I hate and something I know he thinks is one of the funniest things ever. "Somethin' up?"

"Jet's mom died."

"Come again?" His face screws up because he isn't sure he heard me right and not for the first time I find myself all but gawking at his rusty coloured eyes. If I'm not careful, I'm gonna forget why I came out here and Spike's too observant not to notice me doing something like that. Bastard.

"His mom. She's dead." I don't mean it to come out as bad as it sounds, but I can't help it and there's no unsaying things. Spike's wiping his forehead again and just looks down at me.

"How? Wait? Jet's mom?"

"I don't know how, I, I didn't ask." Speaking is hard right now. Thinking is hard right now. I'm doing damned good even moving. I'm really am coming apart, aren't I? "But it's why we're going to Io, guess she was living there."

"He told you that?" I know he's all jealous that Jet volunteered information to me before Spike. They've got that whole 'bros before hoes' thing going and any normal day, on any other topic, I'd be rubbing it in that face of his and cramming it right down his throat. But not for this. This is important and it's not like I went out of my way to find out. He would have told Spike same as me if he'd been the one to walk in there instead.

"Yeah, I asked him why we were going to Io. That's why." He actually looks tense, which is something I've come to fear in the scheme of things involving Spike. He's typically so beach bum-ish that it's easy to get insulted by the inattention. The second he gets like this, though, you better make sure your gun is loaded and you've got money for the croaker. He motions for the kretek again and again I hand it over to him.

I don't really know what to do either, but Jet seems pretty torn up over this. My own mother obviously wasn't someone I'd be all that eager to don the black for, but I think it's different for Jet.

Spike snaps out of it before I do and he pats my arm a little too hard and I almost drop the cigarette he'd just handed back. "You're still coming out with me tonight." And with that he's walking away and dragging his shirt back on and over his body.

Wait. What? "Where the hell are we going?" Spike's about to round the door but first he just waves a hand without ever looking back. I'm pretty sure he's going to check on Jet, and that's all well and good, I guess. But that still doesn't explain what he's got in mind for me or this stupid outing he keeps on about.

Well, hell.


	7. Jockey Full of Bourbon

Okay, here we go. I know this is seeming a little directionless, but I'm having a blast writing it. Again, again, again, thank you so much for the awesome comments I'm getting on this. The only reason I expanded it to begin with was because of some awesome feedback, so trust me, it really does help.

-Red Bullet

**Passive: chapter seven, Jockey Full of Bourbon**

Fun fact about Faye? I like her. I like her a whole lot. I always have and I've always known the feeling was mutual. Now you tell me, what kinda guy isn't gonna be flattered, girl like Faye getting all hot and soft over them?

Likely, not many.

She's a looker and a pistol. She's a good time and more than once she's tossed her own ass in the fire right after mine. Faye's a brat, but she's loyal.

Now, tell me this, what kinda guy isn't gonna jump after that kinda bone when it's dangled in front of him?

Me. Just ain't my way. Not when you take into consideration how many loose ends I had trailing after me. Not when you take into consideration the kind of hang ups I had over another woman.

Never said I was a clever son of a bitch. Just a son of a bitch.

I spent years building Julia into a myth. Editing memories and neglecting to call it what it had actually been. Namely, me fucking someone I shouldn't have been. I have all ideas that she was busy doing the same. It happened. It didn't make us better people. Just made us needy ones.

But it was something that stayed present even though Julia wasn't. Shit haunted me. Fucked me up something good. That whole time period did. Bad stuff happened all around, how it ended was just a little more kindle in an already booming firestorm.

But, yeah. I like Faye just fine. More than fine. That is, when she's acting like Faye. Whatever is going on right now is throwing her off, which just throws me off. Makes us both sloppy. She isn't defending herself like she should and I'm not exactly behaving on the attacks. So, tonight we're jumping ship. For a little while at least. Hopefully it'll be long enough for me to test the waters and maybe even get an idea of just what the shit is messing her up.

I spoke to Jet earlier, but only long enough to confirm what Faye had told me earlier. Didn't seem all that happy at the prospect of me keepin' him company and I can understand that. His mom was dead, poor guy. Didn't even know he still had one. I can barely even remember what it was like having a proper-birthed-me-nursed-me-gonna-spank-me-if-I-misbehave momma. I wonder if Faye remembers anything about her mother yet. We should probably compare notes on how to deal with this Jet thing. I really don't have a clue.

I'm about to start yelling into the comm at her to get her ass down to the hatch when she manifests out of the shadows in the hallway. She's walking towards me, limping more like it, and I take in the sight. She's still in those jeans from earlier and even with a torn up leg she's putting on a fair swagger. She's a damned hoyden. Since I'm feeling truthful at present, I'll admit it, I love it.

I think we might have seen the end of that yellow getup of hers. Few weeks back I found it balled up in the bathroom full of holes and dirt she got from one of our jobs going less than perfect. Haven't seen her in it since, guessing it was beyond the hope of repair. Can't decide if that's a good thing or not.

Faye finally pulls up next to me. She doesn't look as tired as before, but it's still there along with a healthy helping of suspicion that I know is aimed at me. She's still not wearing a headband and all those bangs are back to hiding her eyes. Maybe that's the point. There isn't much to Faye's appearance that isn't orchestrated in some way.

She might not have known who she was but she sure as shit knew her body. Knew all the right angles, knew all the right poses, all the right distractions to get her gone before you could think to put a hand on her. Come on strong, leave just as fast. Faye's like an Ansel-fucking-Adams of sad luck women.

"Ready?" I'm in good spirits, both with the fact I know it's bugging Faye that I won't fess up where we're going and also because I'm genuinely happy to be getting off the ship. Even if it is only Io.

"For what?" She rolls her weight onto one of her hips and dons her signature pout. She's not packing, I can tell just by looking at her. She's got a white t-shirt on, but it's tight and wouldn't do much in the way of concealing a piece. If I look hard enough I can just make out the little dents of lace from her bra. I'm gonna get slapped if I keep staring, though. And there I go grinning again.

Io's hot as hell because of the volcanoes. Even in the climate control of the domes, they can only get it so cool without overtaxing the systems, which isn't very cool at all. If you walk around wearing a jacket down here the wrong kind of people are bound to take notice.

But none of that matters. I'm not looking for any kind of gunfight tonight and we're not on the clock. We're just a couple of friends on our way to play a little pool, drink a few beers and talk a little shit.

I don't answer her earlier question, "Let's go." I pat my thigh to check my pocket for my wallet and toss open the hatch. Io's sulfur breath punches us both and I turn to Faye with a feigned disgusted look, "Hey! Did you just fart?"

"Move it, Gadjo."

It's a twenty minute walk to the pool hall I have in mind and most of that walk is conducted in fairly comfortable silence. She's got her thumb hooked in a belt loop and I make sure to shorten my steps to make up for her limp. That's called teamwork, folks.

We finally get there and she spins on a boot heel to face me.

"All that, and we're going to a bar? Why didn't you just tell me that?"

I shrug, "They also have pool tables. Gypsies first." Faye stares at me a second longer before passing through the door.

I like this place. Been here before. It's a quiet joint, they don't water down the beer and the chicken wings? Fantastic. Plus, they're playing Tom Waits and you try finding fault with that.

We claim a pool table as our own and give our orders and the night's begun.

"So. Faye?"

"So. Spike?" She responds looking up through her bangs as she chalks up her stick.

"Who was the Russian dude?" She comes around to the short side of the table and leans forward, pumping the stick through her fingers before she finally lets it crack against the cue. The balls fly, popping against each other and spreading out across the felt. Faye's little pout becomes a smirk as she watches a couple of the balls sink.

"Stripes" she calls and makes her way around to my side for her next shot. Faye bends and as she does those fetching little twin dents at the base of her spin flash between the top of her jeans and bottom of the shirt that's making all kinds of effort to ride up on her and I wonder for the smallest moment just how well my thumbs would fit against them.

She takes her shot and misses. "You're up." The game is going slow and that's just fine. We ain't playing to win, we're playing to try and shake off a little cabin fever, at least I am. Faye's just the victim I chose to drag along with.

"So where'd you get the name 'Spike'?" I take my shot, sink one of mine and inadvertently help her along when a stripe follows my solid down the rabbit hole.

"You really want to know?" I look up to watch her. Faye's leaning on the pool stick a little and has the neck of a beer bottle pinched in her fingers. She takes a swallow and nods. Now, obviously, 'Spike' wasn't the name I was born with, it was just something I picked up along the way. "Got it from a hairstyle." She shoots me an incredulous look and I just shrug. "It's the truth." And it is. "I used to keep my hair real spiky. Friends started in with teasing and eventually it just kinda stuck. I was probably around fourteen."

She makes an agreeable noise that sounds something like an 'ah' and takes another sip out of her beer and I make a grab for the basket of wings balancing on the table's corner. These are damned delicious.

"What was your name before that?"

"Nu-uh" I shake my head. "Can't tell you that. I'd ruin my irresistible mystique." She rolls her eyes and plucks a cigarette out of our little communal ashtray. "So what about 'Faye'?"

She's studying the layout of the remaining balls, trying to figure which'll be best to go after. "Faye? It means fairy."

"Fairy, huh?" she nods. "Your parents were hoping that maybe you were really just a figment of their imaginations or something?"

"Ha, ha", she mocks, "well, you know, 'Spike' was already taken." I laugh a little and pass on pointing out the fact that she was born well before I was. "That pocket." She points the stick towards one of the holes, sinks it and wins. This is probably our fifth game and the place is gonna close soon. I still have yet to make any headway on my goal for the evening.

Well, damn.

We pay out and I follow Faye out into the street. Asking her outright didn't work. Beer and chicken bribes didn't work. Trying to insult her into normalcy didn't work, either. There's only one thing left to do. This is for your own good, Faye. Promise.

I reach out and slap her ass. There's a trick to a good ass slap, my friends. It's all in the wrist. You gotta let it snap last second. That way you get that nice little sound and a good helping scoop of booty. It's all about the wrist.

She spins around, shocked and sputtering out a half offended "What the hell?" and I shut her up by kissing her. It takes her a second, but she finally starts kissing me back. In the back of my mind I realize we're standing in the middle of the street of a less than reputable city, making out like a couple of drunk college kids. And you know what? I only care about that fact a little bit.

Faye makes a soft little sound against me and my hands sneak around to take hold of her ass again, but this time it's to pull her hard up against me. I'm not really sure which one of us it is that breaks it first, but when I do pull away I say the only thing I can think of, my mind is swimming so much, "Hi."

"Hi?" she questions quietly, but before our oh, so articulate conversation can advance any, her eyes start going right past the side of my arm and her brows knit. "Spike."

I turn and follow her eyes to the hulking mother fucker standing a little ways behind us. Oh, this can't be good. In fact, this is down right annoying.

"Uh, hi." Is all I have to offer before he starts towards us.


	8. Too Sober for This

Okay, this one is a little on the shorter side and in all honesty should have been included with the last chapter. Either way, I'm breaking with the order of things thus far, a little bit and putting two Spike POV chapters in a row. The line of Russian Faye speaks in this translates to "I don't understand."

Also, I previously mentioned that Faye's mother came from Odessa. This is actually part of what is now Ukraine, but the language spoken there most commonly is Russian.

Additionally, I'm running off the assumption that Faye is from Singapore, based on the hints that were supplied to us via the series. I always thought it was kind of neat considering that Spike was a part of a Chinese crime organization, it always made me wonder if what they were really supposed to be speaking in was Japanese or if it was, in fact, Chinese. On this, I make no assumptions, but I still think it's of interesting note.

Red Bullet

**Passive: chapter eight, Too Sober for This**

It only takes Faye a second to shake her head clear and shoot past me and towards whoever the hell tall, dark, and gloomy is. I just barely catch her arm and try to reign her back, but she isn't paying me any attention, just starts into yelling at the guy in Russian and trying to drag me along with her.

He's in street clothes, but I can see the bulge of a gun under the front of his shirt, tucked into the top of his pants. The guy just screams organized crime and I know more than enough about the sort to know that he wore it there on purpose, to make a point. You don't hide your piece there if you have any intention of concealing it. The more I take in of this situation, the more I don't like it and Faye screaming things I can't understand isn't helping none.

But the guy just holds his hands up in a sign of non-violence and holds his ground. He might have at least a head and a half over her and weigh more than twice what she does, but Faye's acting like a goddamned psycho. I wouldn't want to go making any sudden movements myself. So I just hold onto her arm tighter to the point that I'm fairly certain it's gonna bruise by morning and she just keeps spitting out venom at the guy.

Until he finally responds. And she stops when she processes whatever it is he had to say, but she's still shaking pissed, I can feel the tension coiling up in her arm and I'm fighting with the idea of sitting on her to make sure she doesn't do something stupid. He keeps on talking and the only thing I can pick up is what I'm pretty sure was her name and what may or may not have been 'James'.

Faye's staring at him hard, probably deciding how to respond, when the dude makes a grab for the bulge I noticed earlier. Before I realize I've done as much I've yanked Faye back behind me and wince as I feel her arm slide wrong in it's socket, but refuse to look away form our new buddy and ready myself to land a kick. I always had the sneaking suspicion this girl was going to be the fucking end of me. Guess we'll be finding out shortly, huh?

But what this Red October fuck pulls out isn't the gun I thought it was. It's an envelope, fat with its contents. This catches me off guard more than anything and I just stare at it dumbly and then back at my partner in time to catch the unreadable look Faye tosses my way as she moves up to take it from him.

"Ya ne paneemau." She says after looking inside and I'm even more confused when I look inside the envelope over her shoulder. It's filled with paper money, at least two cash cards and a file disk. Seriously, now. What the shit is going on?

'Boris', as I've dubbed him, gives a decidedly un-Russian bow and starts to walk away leaving us alone.

"Well, shit, Faye. I shoulda just let you pay for the beers."


	9. Half Day Closing

Hey guys! Long time, no type. Sorry about the lack of updates lately, but my computer caught a nasty something and I've been running Linux off a disk until I can get Windows fixed. The upside is I still get to ravage the interwebs, the downside is that I can't save anything I write except by emailing it to myself. Hopefully, that won't be the case much longer. I'm still working on Passive and, with any luck, you're still reading.

Enjoy the update, short as it is, while I enjoy the rest of my vacation here in Sunny Florida.

**Passive: Half Day Closing**

It's hot and slightly sour inside what used to be my mom's apartment. They'd found the body in a little under two days, impressive for an older woman who lived alone and kept minimal company, but this kind of heat can do all sorts of nasty things in the way of spoiling a body and no one thought to air the place out when all was said and seen.

Apparently, no one thought to take in mom's cat, either. Faye's squat down, scruffing the fat little tabby's back and it's purring like a monster and whoring itself all over her hands, bellowing as it goes. They're hanging back at the door, the both of them, Spike and Faye. Whether they're giving me space or they just don't know what to do with themselves, I don't know. Don't really care much at the moment, but I tell them they can sit in the living room while I take a poke around.

They exchange a look, Spike nods down at her and she plucks the cat up before they settle in on the couch without so much as a peep. For a moment I find myself wondering if the couch is where they found her, mom, I mean.

Not the thing to think about, Jet, my man. Not the thing to think about.

I abandon them for the back of the apartment, towards the bedroom and study. Life on Io is just this side of hellish if you qualify it with my own tastes and I'm sure the tastes of many. But there's one thing for damned sure, you can get a nice sized place for cheap. I'm happy that the place was this nice. She deserved nice.

She also deserved a visit or two from her son. As shitty a place as a mindset like will lead ya, I can't help it. Survivor's guilt or some shit.

There's your typical gewgaws, photos and evidence of that thing she had for those little sparrow birds. There's heaps of them tucked all over the place. It was one of those things, you know, how no one knows what to get you for a birthday? But everyone knows you like this thing or that and, low and behold, come your birthday, you have a flock of ceramic birds large enough to consider your house a full blown fucking aviary.

One wall has her degree all framed up and proud against an otherwise vacant wall. She had worked as a teacher most of her life. High school, mostly. Literature. I think she was always more disappointed than she let on when I told her I'd dropped out of college. Of course, I'd waited a full month before telling her, half because I was too chicken shit to fess up and half because I was still waiting to hear back from the ISSP academy to offer proof that my life wasn't going to be a wash just because it turned out I'm assbackwards and terrible at labouring through term papers and avoiding my own bad grammar. I write like I talk, and this, I will always assert, was my down fall at attaining that prestige amongst the intelligentsia that I've so often mourned.

My life turned out to be pretty much a wash anyway, ISSP or no.

Somewhere, in the back of my head, I can hear mom clucking behind her teeth at me.

I have no idea what to do with any of this shit. I'm sure there are some pictures I should take, the nice jewelry. I wonder if she kept dad's service gun? I can almost gaurentee that she did, but Meryl Black was known to have sudden fits of apathy and not the least of which were geared towards dad and the career that plugged him when I was 14.

"Yo, Jet." Spike's behind me, hanging around the side of the hallway, sweat stains beneath his pits. I know the damned kid owns antipersprant, it falls out of the damned medicine cabniet every time I open the fucking thing.

"What do you want?" He wipes a hand over his face and looks all together twitchy. Probably just wants a smoke. And here we find ourselves at one of those moments where I just want to slap him.

"Sorry, man, but, uh, that cat is hungry." Of course it is, you jackass, it probably hasn't had food in more than two days. You and the broad in there are already bitching for a meal two hours after your last and even then you're bitching about what I give you. I really shouldn't have asked them to come.

"Kitchen? Did you check the kitchen?"

"I, um-"

"Just check the damned kitchen. Jeez, Spike, honestly." I doubt he's that stupid, so what the fuck was that all about? Or maybe I'm just acting ugly to him cause of all this. That's probably what it is, but before I can hand him over an apology he's already retreated back to the living room. I can hear him say something to Faye, but not a response back, if she even made one. She hasn't been much in the talking spirit just yet and now she's got Spike breathing down her neck about it.

This is an example of what it looks like when your issues have issues.

Mom's room is clean and simple. Bed, nightstand, dresser, jewelry box on top of the dresser. I doubt she spent much of her time in here. The study would have been more like it, more like her. Her books and her writings. My momma the scholar.

And that's when I see it. On the dresser, under the faux wood jewelry box. A little envelope, yellow, just like everything else on Io and feel something inside me quake as I tuck it into my pocket without really thinking. I know what's inside it. I hate what's inside it. I hate that I haven't thought about it in years.

Spike and Faye look up as I walk out the front door, barking over my shoulder at Faye to bring the cat and head back to where we parked.

I can't do this right now. I just can't.


	10. An Expectation of All Things

Hey, guys! Just want to say thank you to everyone who comments, it seriously means a lot. My ego loves you forever.

To be honest, I haven't been thrilled with my handling of Faye thus far in this little story, so hopefully I've amended that with this chapter, but please, tell me what you think. Oh, and promise, we'll start getting more behind the plot soon. Promise.

Red Bullet

**Passive: Chapter Nine - An Expectation of All Things**

I didn't know when he was coming back. Didn't even know if he actually would be, point of fact.

That's the only reason he found me where he did, when he did. Me, Faye Valentine, asleep in Spike Spiegel's fucking bunk. And him catching me do it. There've been a lot of lows in my life, but few have ever been that awkward.

Those first handful of days had been the worst. The memories that kept jumping out from corners at me, hiding in the periphery of my eye until I'd touch something or say something just so and then it'd jump out like some kind of grotesque that Stoppard used to talk about, clawing at my throat, busting through the tissue and suffocating me. Hello, Melodrama. My name is Faye.

But, whatever. My point is that every little thing that came back to me was knocking everything around and casting it in new perspectives and not a lot of them were good. Even little stuff. Stupid stuff. It all just batters at you.

My memory didn't come back with a click, a bang and a "Yo, bitch, here I am." It's still just hinting itself at me and attacking me. Fragments of speech, waves of information, pets, entire vacations, arguments, condolences at fucking funerals. I'll be sipping coffee and I'll remember when my best friend crashed her mom's car when we were 16. I made it out in a cast. She made it out in a casket.

I'm a fucking mess.

And he just went and made it worse.

He left. Right when it was all happening.

Just dipped on us, Jet and me.

Boy is the master of the "How Bad Can My Timing Get" game. Licensed by Mattel. Does Mattel even exist anymore? Would Ed want to play with Barbies? Doesn't matter, she's gone. I'm trailing off again. It happens a lot these days. Ed will pop back up, right? Doesn't seem right that the one who shows back up is me. Doesn't seem right that everyone leaves except for me. Right?

My abandonment issues have abandonment issues.

See? Big girl, I can admit it. Ain't you just beyond the word impressed.

So he leaves, commits a clusterfuck, Jet and I don't hear anything for almost a week and I'm running on close to 70 hours without sleep and I don't know which event to blame for that little factoid.

The thing about living shipside is your circadian cycle gets all manner of fucked up. Same goes for staying dirtside on any rock that isn't Earth. In the end it's up to you to make up your own hours to sleep by. That is, of course, assuming you actually can sleep and like I said, at that particular junction in time I couldn't, even if it would save my damned soul. Assuming, of course, that I had one.

So I wandered. Around the grav wheel, in and out of the bathroom several times, never doing anything more than judging how cold the tile was on my feet, up to the deck a couple of times but always avoiding Jet's set of rooms. I was making him nervous even without the two of us biting our nails over the coroner's call we were both half expecting.

And then I was in his stupid bunk. I didn't even really think about what I was doing, half of me already having had decided days before that he was dead anyway, it wouldn't matter if I scavenged for proof that he'd really existed in the first place.

The solipsistic fuck. Yes. I said solipsistic. Fuck all if I know if you can make that into an adjective, but I just did so you can just learn to deal. Descartes loving jackass.

His room is the same size and shape as mine- crew quarters on a large fisher. All dim and metal and lined with piping that keeps the ship heaving and us breathing. They're all the same, really. But the floor in his is landmined with discarded boxers and stiff brown and yellow gauze. It's disgusting, to be honest. It's dark because the lightbox is broken and it's stale because he barely used it as anything more than an oversized ashtray. It's really no wonder he was always camped out in the common, whoring up the couch.

His bedsheets were frigid and for some reason I found the sensation all together pleasing. Before I realized what I was up to I'd stretched out, my face to the wall and staring at some card sized photos that I think I recognized but couldn't place. I'd never really taken Spike for the underground fine art scene, but right there was evidence to prove I probably didn't even really know the guy in the first place.

I remember that the sheets were still cool against my feet and through the denim on my legs. The entire ship has been running a little on the cold side lately but I just don't have the energy to question it. Maybe it was Spike who kept the temp up? He was from Mars, after all. I didn't bother getting under the blankets, though. Just laid there staring at the picture sticky-tacked near the pillows. One was a kinetic cropping of a woman's legs and a hideous green velvet chair angled from above the model. I swear on my fucking Glock, I've seen it before. It's months later and I still can't figure it out. Fuck.

I have no idea how long I was there, but for the first time in days I found myself able to close my eyes and let sleep swallow me. I didn't fight it.

That's how he found me, however long later. I became aware that someone was there but I tried not to let on, not sure who it was and, at first, not sure where I was. Apparently, I didn't try hard enough because a blood weary voice commanded me to stop faking, that it was obvious I was awake.

Spike.

It wasn't Jet.

It was _Spike_.

I have no idea how I must have looked when I rolled to face him. Shocked, probably. I was half scared he'd decided it'd be a shit-eating riot to haunt me from beyond and I was half scared he was really alive and he'd break if I breathed too hard and it'd be all my fault that he'd blown away again.

He was inside the room, near the foot of the mattress staring at me, half dressed. He reached behind him and even in that damned terrible lighting I could see the pain stretch across his face as he pushed the door command to shut. I was holding my breath.

By the time he sat on the bed my heart had stopped beating, my eyes had stopped blinking. But he just sat there, his back to me for a while. Just sitting. Just _there_.

My mind felt crowded and my body felt like it'd been whipped.

Along the edges of the bandage on his side I could see the swollen and violet anger of a bruise that surrounded a pretty serious puncture would. He was holding his arm wrong and when Spike finally turned and looked at me again I could see a similar event on his shoulder.

In the dark, his hair and eyes look black, his skin takes on this weird muddy complexion and he looks more gypsy than I ever could. I couldn't tell what he was thinking. I couldn't tell why he was looking at me like that. I couldn't tell why it was making me feel like that. I scrambled to get up but Spike caught my shirt and pulled me back, grunting as he did so.

"Stay." As battered as he looked, his voice held strong for that moment. 'Authoritative' is the word. And I obeyed, falling back to the spot where my body had been warming the fabric.

I doubt I could hold any thoughts beyond 'holy shit' and even that became a blank when I felt his arm toss over mine.

"You alive?" I was trying to convince myself I was at ease more so than him.

"Yeah." That's it. He was alive. He was back. He was here. Shit.

And then the anger came, blooming up in me and wet along my spine. Spike must have felt me tense and figured what was coming because he dragged me back against him and whispered "Not yet. Just wait."

I sagged, defeated. What else could I do? I'm not above hitting a man in traction, especially not this one, but Jesus, fuck. What could I do?

"You said you remembered?"

"A little bit."

"You know why were you put into cryo?"

The words came out easy and calm, which wasn't what I was expecting. "Mars. I was going to Mars. The shuttle didn't make it." As smooth as the words sounded, tears were making imitations of shooting stars on my face and I couldn't tell if it was the memory of watching the moon fracture in the glass or the man who was holding me in place fifty-odd years later. I just couldn't tell.

"Good thing, huh?" That's the last thing I remember him saying before my exhaustion finally claimed me and I relaxed into the embrace and slept.

We haven't spoken about it since.


	11. Yellow My Sky Captain

Okay, hopefully someone is still reading this crap-fest I'm calling a story. So sorry it's been so long since an update. After I got back from Florida my computer completely crashed and it was almost two months before my new one arrived.

I've had a couple people ask me to explain some of the Romani/Gadjo stuff that I've mentioned. What it really boils down to in Roma culture is that they are very ethnocentric. This derives from the concept that non-Roma (gadjos) are polluted because they don't follow certain cleansing practices. They're often an isolationist people which is further added to by the fact that they are fairly nomadic and by the fact that non-Roma have negative connotations (theives, delinquents, etc.). In fact, Faye pretty much lives up to the Gypsy stereotype- a sultry woman who'd just as soon snatch your wallet as look at you.

As for how the Roma view gadjos and their association with them, it's rather mixed. But it's not uncommon for a family who still embrasses the traditional ways to cast out a member who would rather live among gadjos (which is what happened with Faye's mother and her family after marrying Faye's father.)

I know that's not the best explaination ever, but if you have any questions just ask, I'd be happy to answer to the best of my ability.

Hopefully you guys like this chapter. I found it a struggle to write and, in fact, it's really the merging of two seperate attempts. So, please, definitely let me know what you think, even if it's crap. I'm not opposed to a rewrite. Because I'm a loser like that.

**Passive Chapter 11: Yellow My Sky Captain**

In the end it wasn't all that bad. Not really, at any rate. Not when you compare it to getting two chunks of lead popped into your gut, tossed through a fucking tracery and dropping four stories on your ass.

No, it really wasn't so bad.

I survived the whole swan dive at the church thing so I don't know why they were so convinced I wouldn't survive getting cut on a little. But I'll be damned if they both thought I wasn't coming back. For a while there I was thinking they might not even want me back The way they were acting was the wrong side of arms wide open- Jet all ornery and Faye's dazed silences booming in my ears. It doesn't make for the easiest of recoveries.

Jet was an easy fix, though. Peace offering of some nice anise liqueur I sweet talked out of a certain someone who owed me for a certain something. The stuff was ancient and not easy to come by. Older than Faye, even. Which, by the by, Faye's age? Something that still boggles the ever loving shit out my mind. Anyway, the anise was from '84 and tasted just like fucking butterscotch. Beautiful stuff. By the end of it we were slapping each other's shoulders and tossing titty jokes back and forth.

Faye was a different story. As always.

After that first night back she wouldn't even look at me unless I said her name and even then it was only a second before she'd shuffle off to get me some more pain meds. I couldn't figure out if she was genuinely worried I was hurting or if she just wanted me doped up so I'd leave her alone. She didn't even throw me so much as a 'ciao' when Jet told her about a skip trace he wanted her to verify. "Verify" to us really just means locate and haul in the ass of- we'll figure out if we got the right guy later.

She was in the Hammerhead and out the hanger faster than a dog eats cat shit and completely ignoring the opportunity to take the 'Fish which completely deprived me the opportunity to tell her she couldn't take it. I was the invalid here. I should be allowed to abuse whoever the fuck I want.

I still don't know what to make of the first night back. It seemed like a well enough way to come back to the fold. Old girlfriend dead. Old best friend dead. New girlfriend in my bed. New best friend down the hall. Everything old is new again.

And I just called Faye my girlfriend, didn't I? I don't even know what I meant by that. I don't even know what I want to have meant by that which just leads me all the way back to the fact that I didn't know how to fix things with Faye and I still don't and that was before all this nonsense with Russians popping out at inopportune moments and her being some kind of fucking Anastasia.

Wait till Jet hears about that fun little fact.

When I finally corner Jet it's almost a day after the visit to his mom's place and we're already about to hit dirtside on Ganymede. He's hauled up in the hanger cracking away at something he pulled out of the wreckage what was once upon a time Faye's zipper.

The zip craft's a mess because of me.

I could be wrong, but I think that might make me kind of an asshole.

But even if you count it all up and carry the one, it's really one of my more minor offences. Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Jet's either ignoring me or hasn't realized I'm behind him. Whichever it is he isn't paying me any heed. Seems to be a lot of that going around at the moment. Faye's gone and fortified her damned self in her bunk where I can't talk to her since we got back from Jet's mom's place and as far as I know ain't either of us seen heads or tails of the fucking brat.

"Yo."

"Yo, yourself, Spike." He's still tinkering away. There's cigarette butts all over the place, half of them soggy from the sweating cup of whatever he's sitting next to his elbow.

I'm fucking terrible at comforting people. I was never reassured as a kid and I sure as shit never learned how to offer platitudes or anything resembling soothing to an adult. Let alone Jet. In the back of my head I can hear Julia call me a cad. She wouldn't be wrong.

"Wanna hear something interesting?" I'm leaning against the wall next to the bench pretending to just look around while I fish for my lighter, which I fail to find. I can feel the pressure in my ribs when my shoulder takes the weight on the wall. Still not entirely convinced that they were set properly.

"Something interesting, huh?" Still not looking at me.

"I know who Faye's daddy was."

"You do, huh?"

"Sure do. Bolin Dai _Tan_." That got his attention. Any cop knows that name.

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"Afraid not." I'm making a big show of pretending how this little revelation isn't as much of a bomb as I know it is. Jet's busy making fish faces.

"You're serious?" I nod. "Then that means that-" I nod again.

"Yup. Her dad was Bolin Tan."

"Which makes-"Jet trails off as he slaps around blindly on the table top for a fresh smoke and almost knocks over his drink.

"Which makes her big brothers James and Ryne Tan. Which, of course, makes our little Faye-Faye the lost little princess to one of the oldest and far reaching crime families around." As if on cue, Jet rubs the top of his head.

It really is a lot to take in. The Tan family had been around on Earth long before the major pushes into space colonization back in the 20's and in fact had been a primary force behind it, especially when it came to Mars. Poppa Tan practically built Tharsis and Noachis with his eldest son, James, heading up the research facility that held the contracts for construction of the environmental domes.

One thing all good syndicates know how to do- blanket dirty hands with legit business. The Tans do it well.

Of course, the ready question on all of our minds is going to be when the hell are they buying steak dinners for Faye's bestest best buddies?

"And Faye just offered up all this? To you?"

"What's that supposed to mean? Faye and I aren't close or something?" He shoots me a look I've seen often enough from any number of cops just before they were about to arrest my teenaged ass. "Yeah, well, she couldn't not tell me. I was kind of there when that Russian dude showed back up."

"He cause any trouble?" Jet's given up on recalibrating whatever the hell that gadget's supposed to do and turned his attention my way.

"Gave her an asston of cash and other goodies then gets lost."

"So, if that was all that happened how'd you get her to fess up to something like being the missing child of an all mighty syndicate?"

"I have my ways, Jet, buddy. Every man's got his ways." And that's all I'm gonna say on that. Besides, I don't want to get some protective daddy talk about my intentions towards sweet little pure Faye Valentine. Especially not from Jet. Especially since I'm still working the details out myself.

"Okay, so if Faye is James and Ryne Tan's sister, why isn't she with them? Isn't like they can't afford another mouth to feed, even if it's one that takes in as much food as her. And how the hell did her cold couch go missing? You'd think that would be something to hold onto. I mean, hell, they held onto Ryne Tan's all that time just fine." Which is true. Ryne Tan had been put in cold sleep back just before the Gate Incident, maybe even at the same time as Faye. They'd only revived him about ten years back. Common knowledge. The Tan's are pretty much celebrities.

But that's where things get dodgy, even with what Faye was willing to offer up. After Boris the Ruskie Faced Creep took his leave, I wanted to get us off the street so I pulled her into an all night drug store and we stood around in an aisle pretending to pick out mouth wash. Even after a little encounter like the one we'd just had Faye still wasn't very forthcoming with the facts so I'd turned around to face the condom shelf and in my lovely baritone began to loudly ask whether she wanted ribbed or warming lubricant. Trust me, watching her blush was worth the fist she connecting with my kidney. Told you every man's got his ways.

"Apparently, they don't want her back."

"Really?" I think Jet actually just bristled. Yup. Definitely a bristle.

"That's what she said." There was more to that story but I wasn't able to get it out of her. She can be quite good at avoiding people when they actually need her for something, the bitch. But the long and short of what I was able to find out is that they'd offered her a stipend under the condition that she stay gone.

Now, there's a long list of things that I'm not fond of and pretty high on that list is women about to cry. Granted, I'm typically the prick causing the waterworks, but I don't like seeing women getting all teary. It isn't right and, like I said, I'm sure as hell not talented at comforting people. And in that moment Faye looked like she was about to turn into a blubber puss. So when she made a pivot and went straight for the store's exit I just followed her out onto the street and back to the Bebop.

"If that's the fact of the matter then what's with the Russian guy? The Tan's aren't even Russian. They came out of old world Singapore, right?"

"The Russian I can't explain. Other than he was the go-between. Guess we'll just have to hold Faye down and force her tell us, huh?"

Jet rolls his eyes at me and goes back to the whatsit he'd been fiddling with. Glad to know I'm taken seriously around here. "Leave the girl alone, Spike."

"You know, that's becoming your mantra lately, Jet."

"Yeah, well, you seem to need a lot of reminding these days. What the hell is it exactly that you're pushing at with her? Kid's got enough problems these days without you sniffing around her panties. Bad for business is all I'm saying."

"Afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Jet." That's when I notice the messy yellow envelope on the table next to the tools. I remember Jet had it when he tore out of his mom's place, Faye and me trailing behind him. And you know something? I'm a nosy bastard. I've almost got it open when Jet finally notices and swipes it back looking genuinely pissed. Oh, now, that's just no fair.

"Honestly, Spike. Do you have no concept of other people's privacy?" He's still clutching the envelope, whatever the hell it is, as he gets up and leaves.

Too many damned mysteries going around here. I don't like it.

Fuck this, I'm getting some lunch.


	12. Pennyroyal

Hey, kids. First off, I'd like to say, holy crap and thank you to everyone who commented last time around. I get kinda worried about how things are gonna be recieved by the people reading so it's pretty damned reassuring when people are cheering me on- so, seriously, big time thanks.

Someone asked what Yellow My Sky Captain meant (name of the last chapter) and it's just the title of Paz Lenchantin's first solo album, which I was listening to while writing it. Fantastic album. Check it out.

As for this chapter, there's a couple subjects in it that might offend. If that's the case- well, I really don't care. I wrote about it anyway. But I hope I handled it okay and that's the best I can do. To be honest, I'm more worried that some of you folks might think that I've taken too much in the way of liberty with the characters' past. If that's the case, then please tell me. I've been trying to stay in character but you know how these things go.

Okay, let's do this.

Passive Chapter 12: Pennyroyal

It's not even half an hour before the little idiot tracks me down again up in the control. This time he's shoveling leftovers into his face and talking around big chunks of food. For fuck's sake, was the kid raised in a barn? The dog had better table manners and the dog spent his days with his nose shoved in his own ass.

"Yo."

"Yo, again, Spike."

"We weren't done." Ah, fuck. Now he's on one of his little missions, ain't he? That headache from earlier is coming back.

I really don't have the time or patience for his bullshit. I really don't. "Yeah, Spike. We were." Bebop's been tricky lately when you're pulling her in through atmo reentries so I've got to be doing this. Gotta do it by hand to keep her cool and together-like. It's making me nervous the longer it keeps going on, but to be honest, what with all that's been happening, I haven't put the kind of effort into it that I need to be. Of course, I could keep on shucking and jiving the task right up until the damned whole thing falls the fuck down on top of our heads and _then _I could get around to the repairs. Wouldn't be the first time.

Just another thing to add to the to-do list for once we hit 'Mede terra.

Ever since I was a kid I always thought that was a stupid way of sayin' it- 'Ganymede terra'. Whole damn place is ocean, practically no dirt at all and what's there is of it's on the floater cities. Fish, fish, water and fish. That's it. And I like it. There's none of that skippy 'chaos terrain' shit, or whatever they call it, like they got out on Mars or 'Ropa. No fart stink like on Io. Just blue and stormy with Jupiter's fat ass hanging in the sky like a big red bloat. What can I say? It's still home.

Spike's still here, still hovering and still annoying the ever loving shit out of me. But at least he's stopped eating, the fucking vacuum. If I can get this can on the ground, I'm gonna make him be the one to for groceries this time.

"Come on, Jet. Don't be like that." He's already slinked his ass back around the console and is leaning in over my shoulder. I can't stand that shit. I really can't.

"What do you want, Spiegel?" I never call him that and the weight of it catches us both by surprise. I keep my attention on the panel and he backs off enough for me to notice, but only just.

"Well, I wouldn't turn down a million woolongs and a hot steak, but I'll settle for you getting the damned salt out of your blisters." He's fumbling with his lighter and each scratchy crank of the flint wheel grates on my nerves that much more. "We're supposed to be friends, you know. You haven't been acting friendly."

"My mom's dead, Spike."

He gives up on the lighter and tucks it back into his pants pocket with what would have passed for a pout if it were anyone other than Spike Spiegel. "I know that, Jet, and it fucking sucks. No one's saying you should be grieving or nothing-"

"Then what are you saying?" At this point I don't even want to know. I just want to be left the fuck alone, something Spike has never been too quick on the uptake to notice. He's like a fucking kid with pox. He just picks and picks until somebody slaps him and tells him to stop. Usually, it's Faye, and for once I can see where she's coming from. I'll have to make a note not to stop her next time she goes to pistol whip him.

"I'm just saying you're being a little hard on us, 's all."

"Us? You and Faye?" He's all shifty and as awkward as ever. Spike isn't too good at being upfront about things, especially when he's busy trying to explain himself. If he wasn't pissing me off, I'd be enjoying the sight of his fumbling. But the fact remains he is pissing me off.

"Well, yeah." He's got a hand shoved in his hair like a chimp rutting for ticks. What the fuck that little minx sees in him, I'll never know.

"So, Faye's said she has a problem with how she's being treated? Faye actually told you this?" I know damned well she hasn't, she's barely even speaking to him. Besides, Faye lacks the degree of tact it would take to keep her from bitching my ear off if something was bothering her.

"That's not the point, Jet."

"And again, I ask what the hell your point is."

"Fine. _I _don't like the way you're treating us. You practically handed Faye her own ass this morning in the mess. Over fucking nothing!" He's not wrong. She'd left the milk out after feeding that cat she'd dragged back from mom's place and by the time I'd found it it was already warm and spoiled. I'd said some things I shouldn't have, that part's true enough, but Faye just nodded and poured the ruined dairy down the drain, promising to get more when we touched down. She'd known I didn't mean it and I was thankful for the fact.

"Ah, so you're here to be her little white knight, is that it? If Faye has a problem with how she's treated on this ship she can call the next port home. Same goes for you. Now, fuck off. I'm busy here."

The sigh he gives sounds more like a growl and out comes the lighter again. I'm already feeling guilty for having yelled but any thought of apologizing dies the second I realize my envelope is in Spike's greedy little hands.

Why the fuck did I leave that out where he could get it? Why the hell didn't I burn the damned thing? There's no way I'll be able to grab it back from him in time, so I settle for yelling.

"God damnit, Spike! Put it the fuck down!" He just tosses me that dumbassed taunting smirk of his and the urge to cave his face in soars. The smirk stays until he's seen what's inside.

"A sonogram?" He looks genuinely shocked and all I can do is hold my breath and wait for the rage to even out. When it doesn't I punch one of the less important computer tops and smile when it gives under my fake arm. Just one more repair bill, but damned if it didn't take the edge off. I rub my head before exhaling and turning to face Spike more directly.

"Yeah, it's a sonogram." Days worth of exhaustion is pouring in and my head is swimming. All I want to do is sit down, but Spike hands it over to me and fixes me with a hard look. "Alisa." I'm hoping it'll be explanation enough, but apparently it's not since he's still grilling me with those messed up eyes of his. "She aborted kinda late in the pregnancy, but I'd already sent my mom the sonogram. Didn't know she'd kept it."

I tell him Alisa'd terminated, which is true, but it's not the whole story. She'd tried to lie to me and say it'd been a miscarriage but I could smell the bullshit coming off her the second I'd walked in the door. Alisa'd had all kinds of hang ups over the baby from the moment we'd found out, but she wasn't very vocal and I didn't push the issue. I was happy about it, excited even. Went out and bought toys and clothes and books, found a bigger apartment. All the usual stuff. Then one day I'd come home and she wasn't pregnant. Just like that. She also wasn't upset about the fact. That was the red flag.

Long story short, I pressured her until she'd admitted to the abortion and we'd fought until she was crying and I was throwing things. I'm surprised she hadn't left me then and there. I'm surprised I didn't- I was so furious. It wasn't the idea of an abortion, it was the fact that she'd not even bothered to warn me she was going to do that, let alone the fact Alisa hadn't even told me she didn't want the baby. Every concern she'd voiced was what I'd imagine any woman expecting might raise- money, the fact we weren't married, whether or not we were ready. I'd done my best to reassure her and she'd let it slide for nearly six months. Not something you really want to come home to.

Now, I know I've been a dick lately and it has a whole lot less to do with mom dying and a whole lot more to do with my finding this. I haven't thought about it in a while now, not since the run in with 'Lisa and that boy of hers last year. I'd really had no idea mom'd kept it. She'd never met Alisa, but she was thrilled for us. Sent toys and stuff when we found out it was a boy. Promised to be there for the birth. All was well in Whoville. And then it wasn't. And a few days ago I was reminded. Doesn't really excuse the fact that I've been snapping left and right at the two knuckleheads.

Spike's still giving me a heavy look and we just sit there for a minute, staring and breathing until he finally responds with, "I ever tell you I had a kid?" He knows damned well he's never mentioned it and I can feel my eyes bulge out of my face. Spike laughs at me for a moment before going serious again. "Little girl. Long time ago, I was only twenty." He laughs again, but finally gets the lighter working and fires up a smoke. "Seriously had no fucking business having a kid. But I was sleeping with this chick and it happens."

Spike shrugs, looks all kinds of uncomfortable and draws deep off the cigarette. I could go for one myself. I hate when he gets all confessional. He tends to only do it just before he thinks someone is going to successfully peel his ass off of him. I remember Faye telling me once how nervous she gets when he does it. I'm right there with her.

"So, yeah, sweet girl, dumb as a brick, but I guess that didn't much matter. One day she comes to me, tells me what's up and that she's going to go through with it. While later, baby's born." Spike swallows and I have a feeling I don't want to hear this story through to the conclusion. "She's got all kinds of problems. She was early and her heart wasn't all that well put together in the first place and we didn't have the cash to fix it." Spike stops to crack his knuckles. The sound is loud and crisp, dissecting the air. Christ Almighty.

"Anyway, baby dies." Another extended pause. You know, I never even held her or anything. Nurses couldn't take her out of that rig they put babies like that in. I know it'll make me sound like a prick, but I never even touched her. I was too creeped out by it all. It was like she wasn't even human because we already knew how it was going to end. I'd just stare at her. Three days later she stopped fighting for it."

I can hear the tobacco pop as he pulls another lungful through the filter. I'm feeling dizzy from the story and I can only imagine how Spike's holding up. Only time I ever seen him like this he was telling me stories about cats.

"Chelsea had some asinine plan to call her 'Serenity' or some hippie shit. Let me tell you, Jet, there was nothing fucking serene about any of it. Every time that baby breathed it was like someone was punching her in the chest. It was violent, you know?" He looks at me a moment and I stay perfectly still. "Nurse came around to take the body and have me sign papers. Asked me what the name was going to be for the certificates, I came up with 'Amy' and told her I was acknowledging her as my kid and off she went. Next day, Chelsea and I split the ashes. After that is when I started spending more time with Julia."

There's a long silence before I realize that Spike's finished the story, or at least finished telling as much of the story as he was going to. He just snuffs out his cigarette on the railing and pushes off the console.

"Aren't you supposed to be making sure we don't crash?" I turn and look to make sure the proxies I'd established are holding but when I look back up he's already walking down the hall.

I can't bring myself to feel pissed at him anymore. I just feel bad for the kid.


	13. Daisy Bell

Okay, so after such a heavy handed chapter, I wanted to write something a little light. So, may I present Faye Valentine Drinking Moonshine.

For the record, I do, in no way, encourage home distillery. Yes, it's cheap and fun and better than cooking, but it's a no no, kids. However, I always encourage drinking liquor out of silly straws. Personally? It's just something I can picture Faye doing. BB is always sucking down the soda, so why not?

I know this isn't my best effort, but again, I wanted something a little on the softer side after last chapter and also because I plan for the following chapters to be a little less than happy go lucky especially as I start the attempts to introduce Faye's family, something I'm kinda nervous about, quite frankly.

Someone asked if Pennyroyal (last chapter's title) was a nod to Nirvana and yup, it was, but also pennyroyal is an abortifacient, and given the chapter's content, I felt it fit rather well. By the by, Pennyroyal Tea is a great song. Go listen to it.

Before anyone asks, "Daisy Bell" is the song that HAL sang while Bowman was shutting him down in 2001 Space Odyssey. It's kind of a disturbing scene and I don't know why I named the chapter that, other than the fact I've been thinking about it all day.

As always, tell me what you like, but also what you hate. But especially what you like, I have an ego, after all.

**Passive Chapter 13: Daisy Bell**

There's something to be said for drinking hooch out of one of Ed's silly straws. Just sayin'.

Heard Jet and Spike going at it pretty hard earlier and if there's one thing Faye Valentine knows, it's when to stay good and fucking gone. The skin on my pasty white ass has thanked me many a times since the very second I honed that little talent. Truthfully, though, it was just another hatch mark on the list of justifications to stay out of their way lately, the least of which isn't Spike and his damned questions. What is he? Nancy fucking Drew?

We made splash down on 'Mede over three hours ago and the sky's been pissing down rain since before we even got here. Some vacation, Jet. Thanks a whole lot. 'It'll be a nice break for all of us, Faye.' 'You can go lay out at the beach, Faye' Maui was always better than any of the man-made shit they've got out on any Jovian rocks, Mr. Black. Sorry to break it to you.

And just so everyone knows, I'm well aware of the fact that I'm a spoiled cunt of a woman. I'm terrible even. Pop me in the airlock and giggle when you flush the atmo. You'll be better off without me, I'm sure. Hell, I'd be better off without me. Just do me a favour and let me finish my drink first.

I haven't found much of an urge to do anything today other than sit at the open gate of the hanger and smoke. Come to think of it, even if I had the urge to do something, there really wouldn't be anything better. Best to just sit tight and keep up what I'm doing. Got my legs shoved out and into the rain, pack of smokes that neither Jet or Spike's realized I had, and a drink in my hand. Let me tell you something, darlings, there's not many things better than cold rain on freshly shaved legs. I'm not kidding. Delicious. You should try it, even the boys.

It's times like this that I can actually shut my mind down- when it's raining I mean. I don't know why, but it's always had something of a purging effect on me. Big fucking cliché, I know, but still. I almost can't even focus on anything when it rains and we're actually parked planetside long enough to get caught in it. My mind just kinda gets sleepy and voids and there you go. No more worrying about all the crap that's gonna give me crowsfeet within the next five years.

Somewhere, behind all my thoughts and the alcohol, I can remember someone telling me that babies love sounds like water or driving in a car because it's white noise, just like in the womb. It's the same effect that I get in the bunks with the engine shaking down the walls. Sounds like that'll just empty out my skull till I'm well and nothing. Beyond the word thankful for the fact, truly. Besides, it's better than just drinking my mind off to sweet fuck all.

Of course, I'll do that in two shakes of a whore's ass, too, which explains the moonshine. Is it still called moonshine when the dumb fuckers went and blew up the moon? I've been guzzling it almost as long as I've been out here. And, oh, hey, another reason to stay out here. Jet and Jackass aren't supposed to know about the homebrew, but I've been doin' it since I signed on here and got my own bunk to hide it in. 'Sides, they'd probably just try and use logic or some shit and tell me it's a bad idea and I'll end up making myself sick one of these days. I'll do that anyways just the same with anything I buy out of a store, but you know what they say, ain't a damned thing worth getting' if you didn't risk something. If it applies to gambling, it damned sure applies to me making rot gut out of cherries and sugar in the privacy of my own room. Tasty, yummy. Sour, yummy. Tasty.

How long have I been out here? It can't be that long cause once the boys stop fighting they always go back to cupping each others balls and that's the very second they realize I've been "too quiet". Which, yeah, it's true, but they can suck it.

Besides, the boys would probably just steal it. And what a waste would that be. All those little cherries, swimming in their juices, trying so hard to turn into ethanol for me. Brave little cherries. And then in come those idiot boys to steal their hard work. Bastards. Both of them. I should find em and kick. Just walk up to Spike and crush his stupid kneecap. Of course, I'd have to put my shoes back on to make it worth anything, but it'd probably almost be worth it. He'd be all 'Damnit, Faye! What the hell was that for?' and I'd be all 'Cause you suck. Just sayin'.'

Just sayin'? When'd I start saying that at the tail end of everything like I was some kind of teenager?

But that little combination of sinking and choking feeling that I'm getting right about now probably means that the better question is when did I stop saying that.

And here, my darlings, we find even more vindication for me spending three hours half in the rain trying to ignore the fact I hate myself. At this point in the game my life reads like a bad David Lynch movie. Under budgeted and indecipherable. I mean seriously, it's a joke, right? It'd be fucking hilarious if it wasn't actually my life.

Girl grows up a spoilt little princess, goes off to a big fancy college, gets a pretentious little bullshit degree because she knows daddy's gonna fund her ass to the grave, skips graduation to jump a shuttle to Mars to freeload off her brothers and sulk, shuttle explodes, girl wakes up in a shit stain future and the brothers don't even want her in their lives. But, hey, here's some cash. We can be pen pals. Oh, and Spike Spiegel is now getting his jollies groping the girl's ass in the streets. The girl really should-

"You know you're getting soaked, right?" Speak of the devil. I lean my head back to stare at him, but the alcohol is giving my skull that heavy boulder-ish feeling and it snaps back on my neck the second I do it. Dead give away.

Spike pops a squat next to me and picks up the jar of hooch, brow quirked. He has a very stupid face. All boys do, point of fact. With their stupid noses and their stupid mouths and-

"Hey! That doesn't say Spike Spiegel on it!" Jerk is even using my silly straw. "Give it back!"

"Fuck," He pulls back like he'd been slapped before smirking, "that'll strip the skin off your dick." Disgusting, good for nothing lunkhead.

"Then why the hell are you still drinking it?" And the little shit still is! Silly straw and all! "Besides, I don't have a dick." And I am _very _proud of that fact. 100 percent pure female meat here.

"Lucky for all present." He's too close to me now. Too fucking close. Why do my legs feel all tangled? Please don't kiss me again. Bad things. Bad things. He's leaned in close to my face but I'm too chicken shit to look at him and instead I'm staring at that stupid loopy straw.

"Faye?" He's got his finger crooked under my chin and I'll admit, I'm not fighting all that hard when he pulls me to face him. Stupid Spike with his stupid eyes and his stupid- you know, the kiss wasn't really all that bad- "Faye, look at me."

"Yeah?" Pretty eyes, really…

"Where are your pants?"

Huh? My pants? A quick perusal of my lower half confirms the fact that I'm indeed sans pants. I don't even remember taking them off. Well, shit.

"Um?"

Jackass is actually laughing at me. Poor helpless, drunk little me. Some gentleman.

Again he asks where my pants are while I'm busy looking around for them. How the hell am I supposed to know where they are?

"Well, they're obviously not on my ass."

"Obviously not." Jerk is laughing even harder now and while I'm not exactly worried about being seen in my panties, I actually did like those pants. Where the hell are they?

"Those them?" He's pointing out into the rain at a wet clump of black fabric. Those're them. I'm about to go grab them when he pulls my arm and starts leading me back past our ships and into the hallway. Fucker is still sipping on my drink. Just because you found me in a position where I couldn't properly defend my liquor doesn't mean you have the right to take it. Does no one in this universe have any decency?

"What about my cigarettes?" They're not going to get wet under the hanger, but just anyone could walk along and claim them-

"You can't smoke in your sleep, Faye." We're in the hall passing the kitchen and the arm he has around me is digging into my ribs too much but I'm not much for arguing about the fact. Better just to let him drag me where ever we're going and then make a run back for my smokes. There were a bunch left, damned if I'll let those go to waste.

"How do you know? I can do all kinds of things while I sleep."

"That a fact?" I don't realize we're at my bunk until we're already inside it and he's dragging me towards the mattress.

Oh, hey. Bed. Best thought I've had all day.

"Oh, hey. Bed." And in I go. I'll get the cigarettes later.


	14. Vital Signs

Sorry, it's taken me so long to update. It's the end of the semester and I'm rushing to have my photography portfolio prepped and ready for final critique. Total nightmare.

Tried to make this one a bit longer than usual to make up for my slacker-hood.

Hopefully no one is gonna hate me too much for my take on a couple factors in Julia's past.

As always, lemme know what you all think?

**Passive: Vital Signs**

And into bed she goes. Fumbling and flopping and grabbing at the pillows after announcing to us both that she'd located it. Completely uncaring of the fact I have a box ticket view of her panty wearing ass. It's vintage Valentine.

Faye's on her belly, smacking the pillows and the hem of that little yellow t-shirt of hers is riding up, just like before in the bar, and I start picking at the dents and scratches on the hatch lining and thinking about peppers sans beef- anything to ignore the recurring notion of testing my thumbs against those twin dents at the base of her back. It's a thought I've had too often to not have actually put to the test and I've never been wealthy in the way of restraint.

I'm still dizzy from my little confession session with Jet and I'm fast coming upon that point in the day where I either need to sleep or hit someone. A good fuck would probably also do me right up and truth be told it's been a while, but I'm slowly becoming a realist- or, at least, getting better at feigning one- and occasionally I know when not to test my luck. Test it too much, at least.

It's been an eternity since I've thought about Amy and what went down between Chelsea and me. Been a day and a dollar past the same eternity since I've actually told anyone about it. And I've never fucking told anyone the whole story. I'm doubting very much that I ever will.

My entire adult life has been built around thrust and retreat tactics. Busy sloshing around whatever chooses to show up, splashing it in the face and seeping down the drain, ideally, before I can be mopped up. Not much in favour of letting myself dwell on whatever I'm actually dealing with. Personality fault. We all got 'em. Then again, could be my personality fault is really just my personality in its entirety. I'm a fucked up son of a cunt, I won't ever claim otherwise.

"Move over." My hands are already shooing Faye further back on the mattress to make room for myself and the little twit actually moves over before she realizes what's what and shoots up in the bed suddenly indignant.

"What the hell are you doing?" I don't even bother looking over, just grab a fist full of pillow and cram it behind my head while kicking at the heels of my shoes trying to get them off.

"I'm taking a nap, Valentine. Can't do it with you harping in my ear."

"You can't do it, period. Not in here. You have a bed. It's down the hall." She's says this all very matter-of-fact, with all the golden conviction of any self-righteous drunk. I do indeed have a bed and she's right that it's right down the hall, but that doesn't matter since I've already given up on anything resembling behaviour for the time being.

"Afraid it won't work, need to wash the sheets." It's a half truth at any rate and that's better than what usually shits its way out of my mouth. " Haven't been much of a domestic lately. You understand, dontcha, Valentine?" For the record, that part is a whole truth.

"The couch, then." She's sputtering and leaning over me, insistent. If it didn't speak volumes of all her little fucked up issues, I'd say it was cute that Faye-con-ya-as-soon-as-kill-ya-Valentine was this flustered at the idea of having a man in her bed, especially, little ole' me.

"Out of the question, couch smells funny ." Another full truth, for those keeping score. My eyes are closed, but only so I can keep from laughing. Doesn't seem right to go laughing in a drunk girl's face, as much as she might deserve it.

"The couch smells funny because _you're_ always busy skanking it up." Touché and ouch.

If all it takes to get Faye back into barbing order is to get her drunk on homebrew rot gut- which could have easily poisoned her- then it's almost worth the risk. Still, kinda pathetic and something that's going to need some work. I've done enough sad luck drinking in my day to know it's better to do it with company. At the very least it guarantees that you aren't going to Jimi Hendrix yourself all over the floor for your crewmates to find at a later date.

"Look, I'm tired. You're also tired, or at least you should be after all that drinking-which you rudely did alone, not that I'm surprised. But here we find ourselves in a bed. Seems like a solution to me."

This is me at my most charming. Doesn't seem like much, I know, but girls aren't the only ones that can pull off a puppy dog pout and I'm old blood at the sport. Now, smile like a champ, Spiegel.

Truth be told, I _am_ exhausted and I really do wish she'd lay the hell back down and just go the fuck to sleep, make this easier on the both of us. Everyone in this functionally fucked crew of ours is run ragged from the last year and a half and we're only getting worse. Manufacturer warranty is up, folks. Owners are now responsible for repairs. Batteries not included.

That and, spot me for the asshole that I am, I don't feel much like moving from where I'm at, so she can just deal with it. Besides, I relish any chance to successfully make her blush.

Faye looks every bit as dubious as she should be, but it also seems she's fresh out of options and finally she lays back down, brows furrowed and eyes fixed squarely on me. It's nice to be the centre of attention when you're in a lady's bed.

I know the only reason I'm getting away with this is because it's me and she's too drunk to actually do anything about it. There's more than a little chunk of my mind that's relived that an inebriated Valentine isn't prone to falling into bed with men when she runs off like she does. Guess I lost that bet with Jet after all. Scary how he can call her shots so well. Makes me wonder just how many women like Faye are out there running around and just how many of them have stolen Jet's wallet.

She's uncomfortable as hell and I do my best to ignore the fact. It isn't lost on me that this is probably one of the biggest insights I've gotten into Faye and her trust issues. A year and a half of pulling each other out of the grinder and generally giving a damn and she can't even drop guard enough to lay next to me for an afternoon. It's gotta be just as lonely as it sounds.

Now, a smart guy's gonna tell you that it's a bad idea to compare women. An honest one is gonna tell you you're gonna do it anyways. I'm shameless enough of an ass to fess up to the fact I do it way more than I should be.

Julia was the kind of woman who'd been fucked over since the very moment she slid into existence, but she'd led the kind of life where that was normal. You grow up that way and you just don't know any better when it comes to some things. She honestly had had it bad and it broke her up something tragic. She'd been a prostitute by 15, red eye addict by 19 and dead by 32. All of that said, she was still a god damned angel compared with me or any role I've ever played.

All those things were just an epilogue to her shit stain of a childhood that would leave you wanting to kill her daddy if it weren't already a done deed. 'It's a body that won't ever be found' was the final thing she had to say about him the one and only time I'd ever heard her speak on the subject. I always got the feeling that whatever happened there hadn't left her with anything resembling satisfaction. That little fact just made me hate him all the more.

Closure's a tricky beast.

Julia had started running with our crowd after Vicious took a liking to her and up and killed her pimp who'd been one of Mao's 'vendors'. Before that, she'd always been on the periphery, we knew who she was and she knew who we were because Dougie was always bringing her around with him as arm dressing or using her as a go-between. Even someone as genuinely gorgeous as Julia couldn't spruce up an ambitious cunt rag like Dougie.

I don't remember anyone blinking twice when he showed up after three days of being missing, sans organs and a severed dick buried half way down his windpipe. If anything, Mao was relived not to have to deal with the prick anymore.

In my experience there's two ways women end up when they've been tossed around that bad. The first is pretty much how Julia was- namely eager for anything resembling the affection she'd so seldom got. Afraid to contradict and allowing the people around her to lead her life and care for her. She'd run for it, arms spread and lips pleading. Not saying it made her bad or nothing, the very opposite, just saying that it happens.

She was practically a ghost haunting her own life. Julia was a whisper, soft and hardly there- it's a fair description of who she was and had always been, when you really get down to it, when I'm allowing myself to be honest. "_Sotto voce_", comes Vicious' pretentious voice from somewhere behind my memories. A hushed something that you'd strain to hear or see. Just like a phantom. But she was still able to reach out, still able to attempt contact. That's what hooked me, I envied her ability to do that, I still do.

Quiet, suffering Julia.

She didn't know how to escape it and I have my doubts that she really wanted to, she'd been so resigned to the life.

Then you have the polar opposite. You have women like Faye. They've been kicked around so much they've learned to kick back. Faye's had a shit run of years, that'll never be in contention, as much as I hassle her. She got dicked over from the start by the first kind hand she'd trusted and she's been biting those that feed her to taste for poison ever since.

Who knows what all she's never bothered filling me and Jet in on. I'm sure there's plenty of less than shiny things from the past four years, never mind the new little revelation that she's an old world crime darling- no telling what kind of childhood that's going to build.

I see it anytime a guy gets ballsy enough to make a pass at her. She'll use her, admittedly, copious amounts of allure just enough to get a bounty done and over with, but that's it. The rest is just a show that's meant to intimidate most men into leaving her alone. But every now and again guy comes up to her at a bar and she'll waste no time in emasculating him with a pointed comment, smirk and a back toss of her drink to send him packing with practiced ease. It can be quite a show.

If she'd been born a dude, she'd be King Shit of Hardass Mountain. The kind of hard hitter you can't help but respect. With the glaring lack of a penis, she's just a shrew. Still, I've got plenty of respect for the girl.

But the heavy truth of it is Faye doesn't know what to do with herself if a guy comes at her with anything more gentle than a punch. If he tries, she does her damnedest to push him into something she knows, familiar terrain- a situation where she can fight. The moat on the other side of her little guarded emotional wall is filled with scrotum chomping piranhas and dick sawing kittens. My hand to god.

That's her tried and true strategy- get them to swing a fist and she can lay them low. No fuss, no muss. Just the dance of panic that passes over her just before the game face slides up and into place, locked and loaded. Bang. Another would-be bites the dust.

She just doesn't know how to cope with the idea of someone not trying to take or inflict something on her, the thought just never occurs to her, I'd bet. Just look at any number of our own little dealings, toss in the fact I apparently get her no-nos all bothered and it makes for a theatrical event.

Conflicted, frenetic Faye.

We're like bad opera, all of us. And true to that formula, everything old is new again. The cosmos hit restart, but the cast and quirks are altered in this pass through. I've figured I might as well settle into the idea and that greedy side of me that demanded Julia is now insisting that the Romani would do well to follow my suit.

"Come 'ere." I grab her wrist and drag her arm across my chest, she honestly surprises me when she doesn't resist or full out throw me off the bed, but she also doesn't relax, which bothers me more than I'll allow myself to admit.

"What do you want?" Her voice lacks the corrosive scorn I readily associate with anything Faye Valentine, but her eyes are a mess of any number of things beneath the hood of her bangs. There's a pleading element to her words and I think I'm finally starting to realize just how fucked the situation between us has gotten.

"Told you, I just want to sleep. Go to sleep, Faye."

"That's not what I meant, Spike." her voice is low and she probably wrestled with actually following through with saying that. Faye presses her weight down with her other shoulder to give herself leverage to sit up, but I still have a hold on her wrist and keep her latched down, my arm sneaking beneath and against her back to secure the hold. "What are you doing? What is it you want? I don't understand." There's anxiety edging its way into her voice and I'm starting to regret forcing myself on her like this.

One of Faye's lesser known strategies is to lay all of her cards out and hope you're not too much of an asshole to take advantage of her. It's reserved strictly for moments of desperation and, as far as I know, I'm the only one she'll do that with. It feels good to have that kind of trust from someone as resistant as Valentine, even if it might be undeserved, but it's still hell when you're just as evasive.

"I don't know, Faye. I just want to sleep." And I do. I want to sleep like men in hell want water. I need to be able to shut all this shit out, all the admissions of the day, all the fuck ups of the week and the hang ups of this cluster crap lifetime. Just for a little. Put off now what I can avoid again tomorrow. It's what I call survival.

I need that. I need it badly.

Her body is tense but her movements are slurred from her drinking and any effort she puts forth is wasted right up until she opens her mouth again and spits out a bomb. "I'm not Julia."

God damnit.

"I'm not Julia." She insists again, saying it into my shirt to avoid looking at me. I can feel her starting to coil with tension, probably regretting saying anything, but I have no idea if what I need to anticipate an attack or having to dash after her when she decides to bolt.

"I know you're not." I can't think of anything more to do that just agree with her. She's right. They're not polar opposites or nothing, but you're never going to mistake one for the other.

"What are you playing at?"

"I don't know."

"You can't not know, Spike." Sure I can, I've gone through my entire adult life not knowing much of anything and pulling through okay. Or at least alive, at any rate.

Faye's a quiet drunk, for the most part. Shocks the fuck out of me, and everyone else, but there it is. There's the occasional brawl, of course, but that's just blowing off steam and she would do that sober either way. For the most part, though, the formula is as follows: drink, brood, drink, check lipstick, tell some guy to fuck off, drink, sulk, drink, call Jet or me for a ride.

Now, I'm pretty sure she's getting ready to tell me to fuck off so the only things left on the list are to fix her makeup and to call the big guy in here to drag my ass away.

I'm getting ready to launch into a nice little heartfelt number when she persists with whatever that damned thought process of hers is shaping up to be. "She's gone. I'm not her and I won't be some replacement for her. I don't need to deal with that kind of bullshit. I don't hate myself enough to just be your substitute fuck."

Any speech I had prepared dissolved. She hasn't lifted her head and she hasn't lost her cool, but there's exhaustion popping holes through her voice and I have every doubt that she knows exactly where she's going with this.

"Just?" I can't help myself asking and doing so with only levity halfway on my mind. I don't mean to pull a penis brigade stunt and zero in on the ambiguity of her refusal to sleep with me, but that's legitly what caught my ears and I honestly want to know the whole truth behind that little 'just' inclusion.

"I-" She starts lifting her head to finally look at me and I just smack it back to where it was while looking down the length of us on the narrow bed. This is going to a dangerous place and it's best to stifle whatever she's thinking before it develops any further and I end up considering the fact that I might very well be big enough a bastard to use her like that.

I might be, but I doubt it. I'm messed up for sure, and me suddenly allowing myself to cave to impulses I've had battened down since we met is a new thing all together. Like I said, restraint and I aren't exactly exchanging cooking recipes or nothing. So, yeah, the timing makes it look terrible on the surface, makes it look like I'm just falling into old habits all over again, but I really do want to believe that I've finally made it to a point where I can move on. I want to believe that I'm done wallowing. I want her to believe that.

"Just go to sleep." Again, I'm cringing at the sound of my own voice, but Faye's either too tired or too drunk to try for defensiveness and I'm relived when I can feel her struggle to relax. At least she's trying.

Eventually, she does pass into sleep, but I'm left here wide the fuck awake despite all the noise I made about being wiped. The pillows have me propped high enough that I'm almost in a sitting position, my hands still securing Faye where I want her and all I'm left to do is sit in the claustrophobic bunk and soak in our surroundings.

Faye's legs trace a pale streak down a good portion of my own legs, the pallor only interrupted by the cloud of yellow bruising around the knife puncture on her thigh. Jet had mentioned it was from the last bounty and she's still got a bit of a limp going. I should probably get her into a sparring match sometime soon to test just how bad she's favoring the leg.

The only disturbing part about the injury is the very fact that stuff like this I _don't _find disturbing. It really says something about a man's life when battle wounds on pretty, young girls is business as usual.

It's almost two hours later when that cat jumps onto the bed waking the both of us up with its damned bellowing. Faye's slow to come out of her sleep but reaches over to scruff the cat behind the ear as it passes by in its march up and down the mattress.

"Figure out his name?" She still hasn't lifted her head or made a move to untangle herself and I wonder after that since I know the alcohol's burnt its way mostly out of her system at this point.

"George."

"You named a cat George? That's not a name for a cat, Faye."

"Spike's not a name for a boy."

"All man, baby." But my heart's just not into trading commentary- we're both dazed by the moment and I'm struggling to make it back out of the fog my mind is sweltering in and wondering just how I got to this mental state to begin with. I'm weighing my options over moving when Faye frees herself and slowly climbs over me and briefly straddles me in her quest to land her foot on the floor.

My hands automatically go up to grab her around her back but the look confused look she gives me over a chewed lip stops me from dragging her down on top of my chest. She breaks the stare before I do and stands up fully and heads for the door. I don't fight her, only get up and follow her down the hall and all the way back into the hanger.

It's still raining outside despite of the sunny sky. Faye bends down, still in her little black panties, and picks up the abandoned pack of smokes before righting herself and staring out into the sun storm.

"The devil is beating his wife."

Again, Faye Valentine's found a way to confuse the ever loving hell out of me.

"The storm." She gestures outwards while she picks at the lid of the cigarettes. "When it rains like this, with the sun out and all. It's supposed to mean the devil is beating his wife." Her voice is far away and I can't tell if it's her or my own inability to ground myself in reality. On reflex, my lighter is out and igniting the tip of her smoke, but she doesn't bring it to her mouth, just knots her arms over her chest and continues to stare.

Then she's pressed hard up against me and I'm pushing us both towards the hanger wall for leverage. The kiss is different than the one before. That one had been something eager and reckless. This isn't.

She groans a little against my mouth and drops the cigarette, but I don't flinch when the cherry burns the top of my foot before falling away completely. Her hand are in my hair and mine are around her back and snaked up to hold her head in place, demanding.

This kiss is extremely different than the previous one. That was me partially trying to see what I could get away with, trying to get a reaction out of her and throw her off her guard.

This kiss is different. This is me making a decision.


	15. Day After Tomorrow

This one was a tooth puller. I have no idea how I was updating every day for a while.

Okay, well, enjoy!

**Passive, Chapter 15: Day After Tomorrow**

Being self employed as we are, some days there's not much more to do than a friendly game of knock-you-on-your-ass.

This is how you can rationalize Spike and Faye gloating at each other over raised fists in the hanger. That kind of sight doesn't much raise eyebrows so much as the urge to pull up a chair.

We pick up over 900 channels on that television out there, but I'd still rather turn bets in my head over who'll win and why, then just sit back and enjoy the show. If you're thinking that's kinda messed up, keep in mind we ain't much for genteel living around here.

Spike's all about techniques and that's nothing new. Boy'll spend hours in the common, or wherever else, holding mid-strike poses like he's some kind of damned yogi. Though, that only lasts right up until he catches a whiff of something cooking in the kitchen. Then it's the call of the wild and he comes a'beggin. But, still, he knows his stuff and he knows it well.

He's also a fucking showoff who makes a sport out of racking up collateral damage fines, but that's nothing new either.

Faye, on the other hand, I wasn't even sure _could_ fight for the longest time- at least not when it came to anything other than flinging insults at people's heads or blaming the dog for any and everything she did.

The both of em are complete children and I'm just the lucky asshole with the shiny title of Ship Babysitter. And again, we find something that isn't new. I'm the Ozymandias of the late 21st century, kids. Gather 'round. Oh, how the crowds seethe with jealousy.

Turns out Faye can fight. She can fight pretty damned well, too. A tried and true old fashioned brawler. First time around just about any man, bounty or otherwise, is gonna look at a bitty little thing like her and assume they'll have a victory already in the pocket- and I'm including myself in this. But they're wrong. She might not always come out on top, but she sure as shit ain't gonna hand it over to you.

But I'm pretty sure that initial assessment of herself is something she relies on, at least partially. Throws you off your guard just a tad, opens up a window for attack and that's all Faye'll need. Humans are opportunists, after all.

Spike's got a theory that that's why she runs around in those little getups of hers, that it just enhances the fact she's this weigh-nothing young thing all the more. Plus, you got a scoop of ass that nice flashing around in front of you, chances are you aren't gonna be ready for that nice little chambered punch she'll be tossing into your guts and face.

Which brings me to an interesting little side note and factoid- Faye doesn't seem to be into marketing a flesh fair around as much lately. That yellow abomination hasn't made an appearance in weeks and more often than not she's dressed for the appropriate weather, which is something I never thought I'd live long enough to see.

That is, of course, if you discredit the fact that she's currently pantless and swinging her leg high at Spike.

I'm getting to the point where I can't deny that I'm getting older. Been gettin' older for years now, if that makes any sense. Was the reason I took Spike on to crew to begin with. You loose a limb and you'll age a decade in the very instant it happens. Time'll come when you have to admit that you're probably not going to be the ideal guy in the field. Time'll come when you'll be welcoming the computer screen instead of a quarter mile sprint after some jackass with a mark on his head.

That's not to say I don't miss the field work- knuckle cracking, skull thumping and all the fun stuff- just saying I'm more useful with my fingers on keyboards instead of triggers these days. They say it's a humble man who knows when to pass the torch. Well, then, just call me Gandhi.

Neither of em have noticed me up here on the landing watching, not that I'd expect them to. Whatever it is they're debating while they pass punches has them too engrossed. It makes me an ass to be straining to hear like I am, but I'm sure even Gandhi got a case of the Curious Joes every now and then, too. You can't fault me a bit.

Besides, it's my ship and I deserve to know what the hell is going on it.

They aren't going at it full blown. They're tossing strikes as casually as other people would make hand gestures during conversation. I'm pretty sure Spike's mostly just trying to test out that leg of hers. Thigh wound'll fuck over even the twenty-something set if it ain't healing right.

For her part, Faye looks all the sky like she's just trying to blow off whatever has her worked up this time around, which, if I had to guess, would be the green haired dingus himself.

It's pretty obvious that somewhere along the way Faye was a dancer of some sort. It's in the way she moves, the way she pulls herself around and through whatever maneuver she's got going. Girl's got real grace, if you're paying attention.

Typically, dancers are the biggest bitches when it comes to making em into fighters. All their training has been poured into what looks nice, not what's going to be powerful. They'll almost always try and point their toes in a kick and leave their torsos prone. They just can't help themselves.

But it's also pretty obvious that Faye knows better and knew better long before showing up here. Not surprising, assuming Spike's info on her family origins is accurate. No, not surprising at all. If I were the head of one of the oldest crime councils to survive the colony push off of Earth, I'd want my daughter to know how to fend off whatever nasty misters wanted to come knocking on the door. Especially if that daughter turned out to be a looker like Faye.

I mean, jeez. That's just good parenting.

"Look, all I'm saying is why not? What will it hurt?" Spike's saying this as he sends his leg slamming down at her. Faye either doesn't hollow her torso enough, or that thigh is still too tender, cause she almost knocks herself ass cheeks over pie hole avoiding Spike's assault. She catches herself, though, and attempts to make it behind him to try her own.

"And all I'm saying is how about we drop the topic and never talk of it again?" I almost give myself away up here by laughing when her counterattack turns out to be a smack upside the back of his head.

"Don't play coy, Valentine. We both know you're too interested to be keeping up pretenses. You're too lazy to do it for very long, anyways." Boy's gonna get his ass handed to him in a second. She's already scowling and that's not to be taken for a good sign. Now, I know I told that boy I didn't want him messing with her head.

Then again, any girl who's gonna fall for this fucked up courtship attempt probably deserves whatever it is she gets. Just not when it's on my ship with my crew.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Spike."

That's when he grabs her, drilling down at her and saying something I can't catch from up here. That idiot's gonna go for some cheese ball kiss, ain't he?

Of all the fucking-

"You two! Knock it off!" I have to convince myself I'm not being the bad guy here as they jump apart and stare up at me dumbly. "We got errands to run, let's go." Faye bolts off, probably embarrassed and Spike watches her go before tossing me a look nasty enough to sour sugar.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

It's half an hour later and all three of us are sitting in a booth at a waterside dinner going over the shopping list for the afternoon. It's been a while since we've pulled to port long enough and had pockets deep enough to actually restock anything and I know for damned sure it's gonna take the rest of the day and probably tomorrow morning to finish just the basics. We're bare boned when it comes to everything from med supplies to ammo to dish soap.

Not to mention the fact that I just announced that we're going to be docked for at least the next month and a half. There's just too many repairs all around that need to be done. The Bebop is being held together with duct tape and voodoo wishes and we need the Red Tail flying if we plan on continuing to make a living and for the minx to maintain a semblance of sanity.

We'll be saving on fuel and jump fees staying put, anyways. Harbour slip rentals are cheap on a water planet and, to be honest, it'll be nice to be on the old stomping grounds while I'm not gonna be busy picking at emotional scabs.

The news that we'll be sticking around longer than the mini vacation originally promised is being greeted with- well, not much of anything, really. Spike's still pissed at me for butting in on whatever was going on in the hanger and Faye's more interested in spraying Tabasco all over her eggs and looking out the window at the downpour. I guess I'll be the one carrying the conversation today.

"Look, we're almost out of ACP since you two practically piss bullets. So, Spike, you're in charge of the ammo closet. Pick up some Parabellum while you're at it. And anything else you think could be useful. But cool it out with the potato mashers, will ya? Bounty's no good if you blow him up first."

"Fine, but I ain't getting that cheap stuff you keep buying. Shit leaves the guns filthy."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." It's a familiar argument and one we're sure to have many times more, but I'll admit that it does feel good to get back to familiar ground with him. We're all so messed up lately we need the chance to regain footing. Besides, if we weren't constantly fronting bail money for him there'd be cash left over for quality bullets instead of the powder spitters we've been relying on.

Faye's got on these ridiculous movie star sunglasses that are so dark you can't tell if she's staring at you or the salt shaker. But at least she bothered putting on a skirt before we left. I don't even want to think about the commotion her walking around in her skivvies would have caused with the locals.

Up till this point, I've pretty much been aiming to let her alone so she can work out everything. She's never been the type to come crying on our shoulders and I'll respect her privacy and not shake a finger at her. But, I still don't think she's recovered from Spike ditching us to go blow up half of downtown Tharsis and I'm right there with her. It was a fucked thing to do, but this whole new thing with her memories coming back and her family? I really don't know what to think, but I wouldn't be a friend if I wasn't worried.

Spike snatches the Tabasco bottle away from her and she pulls her hand back with a frown before picking up her fork. I'm really not liking whatever it is that's been passing between these two. It's got "uh oh" written all the fuck over it.

"Faye, I need you to cover restocking the trauma bags while I'm looking for parts for your ship. We need the usual- dressings, air splints. See if you can track down anything better than naproxen."

"Liquor."

"We're not putting liquor in the first aid kit, Spike." I have to at least _pretend _to be the responsible one. Though, you gotta hand the point to the boy. Jäger? Probably gonna do a world more good for you than an aspirin. Spike taps the ash off his cigarette on the edge of the plastic ashtray and smirks.

"No, I meant we're out. Put it on the list." He leans back and the vinyl of the booth squeaks. "Unless, of course, Faye wants to start sharing with her friends." Not sure what that means, but Faye doesn't bother with a retort, just keeps staring out at the quay with her fork posed over congealing eggs.

"Fine, I'll swing by the liquor store while I'm out looking for parts. Anyone think of anything else?"

That's when Faye up and leaves the table without a word. Just drops the fork onto the food, palms the cash card I'd scanned for her end of the errands and slides out of the booth and out into the rain.

"Something I said?"

We both watch her go and once she's out of sight, Spike reaches over and scrapes her meal onto his plate. I half expected him to follow her, but he just digs into the pile of food and taps off his cigarette again without having taken another drag off it.

"Who knows with her?" is all he deems to offer. The waitress comes and refills our mugs, asks if there's anything else and takes Faye's plate with her when she leaves. For a minute there, I think about the last time Faye took off from the ship. Spike and I'd gone off together to have a drink and say good riddance when we were really just sulking. It was the same day Ed had left.

I've been meaning to stop by and check in on her for weeks now. Vid calls just ain't the same and besides, she seemed kinda down last time we talked. I miss the kid. The dog, too. I'd had some major reservations about her leaving to be with her pop. It would have been real easy for us to have tracked them down and brought her back. But it was her dad, you know? Little kids should be with their dads. Even if they are shit for brains in the parenting department.

Besides, are we really any better? Are an ex cop, an ex syndicate capo and a compulsive gambler- all three of which chain smoke, cuss and more than occasionally kill while on the job- gonna be any more qualified to raise a little girl? Doubt her daddy makes her do illegal hack jobs every day, too. So, there's another point in his corner.

I just can't make myself feel good about any of that, though. I keep trying, but it's just not working. But that isn't something I can think about right now. I've gotta worry about straightening out the current crew before I can hassle with the hypothetical ethics of bringing Ed back into the fold.

"Actually, it's good she ditched. I need to talk to you about something." I have every idea that this isn't going to be a pleasant conversation for either of us. But it needs to be said. There's a thousand and one reasons why Spike trying to cozy up into bed with Faye is bad news. It'll fuck up the nice little dynamic we've been building over the last year and a half and to be a perfect sap about it, I don't wanna watch that girl get hurt because Spike's a shithead when it comes to women.

He drops his fork into the food, plugs the cigarette into his mouth and levels his eyes at me. I've seen this snotty little look from any number of jackasses during processing after an arrest, but this is the first time it's actually made me uncomfortable.

"Look, about whatever it is that you-"

"Stow it, Jet." And then he's gone, too, taking with him any of that earlier common ground I was probably just imagining.

Though they both stuck me with the check. How very fucking generous.


	16. Bon Idée

Hey guys! Sorry it's been over a month since my last update. Classes, work, and a hobby or two got the better of me for a while. So, here's the chapter where I start to legitimately tie in some plots. Hopefully I avoided some cliches, but probably not.

Hope you kids are still enjoying this mess. And again, sorry about the month delay.

Also, the character mentioned as Linda was a character from the manga story called The Great Deceiver. I believe it was in the 2nd Bebop manga, if memory serves. She was presented in the story as being the person who basically taught Faye to con. So I guess she's a spoiler for those who haven't read the manga.

Oh, and Mary! I did actually use the word box, like you suggested. And good grief, I need to learn to edit better.

**Passive: Chapter Sixteen: Bon Idée**

He's busy blowing smoke up both our asses if he says it's a good idea. It's a terrible idea. We'd be better off if we took up light socket licking as a professional hobby. Hell, with him that might actually be an improvement.

Who does he think he's kidding? I'm not the female lead in the summer blockbuster and he damned sure isn't the hero of this happy little mess. We don't end up together by the time the credits roll by means of a clever plot device. That was supposed to be him and Julia. That's how it was meant to be. That's what he wanted and that's how it should have stayed. Those two off having a happily ever after so I could fuck off back to my old life. I miss that life.

In that life I knew what to expect- nothing stacked on top of nothing. A distinct lack of let downs. It's a lot more comforting than it sounds.

If Linda were here she'd be sticking me with that smug-assed smirk and a "Told you so, darling". For all the fuss she'd make over my gloating, she was a pretty sore winner herself.

I'm grateful to Linda. I think she really did want to teach me what she knew, teach me what she thought I needed to survive. But there's resentment in there, too. She was one of the people in the last four years that made me what I am and I'm not all together sure I like who that person is.

She was always big on the theory that all men were just itching to find an excuse to punish a woman. According to her, a man- any man- will set up a situation just to trap a girl in it. Manipulate her till she doesn't know that up isn't the same as down and pretty words aren't the same as love. To her, the only way to avoid it, was to join it.

I totally bought into it back then, too. I was young and impressionable and every other stupid after school program cliché you can pull out your ass. I was full of hero worship and that's just as bad as anything else I've ever been accused of. Back then it was easy for me to ignore the paranoid hate speeches because I was stupid enough to mistake Linda's own brand of emotional engineering for empowerment.

But she was wrong. Or, at the very least, she wasn't completely right. Men aren't the sole harbingers of corruption and betrayal. _People_ are. All of us. Men. Women. Children. Space aliens that come out of the fridge. We're all just in it for ourselves, even when we're worried about someone else, we're really just worried about what's going to happen to _us_ if they're not around.

It's humanity, not gender. Planets turn, dice roll and people manipulate to gain an advantage. You make a play or you are played. _This_ has been my reality. _This_ has been my life. My world, even.

It's bullshit, though. It really fucking is. Life isn't supposed to be lived like this. Life isn't supposed to be anxiety over strangers slipping knives between your ribs. It's not supposed to be rejection from your family, no matter how polite. Life isn't supposed to be about worrying that the man kissing you is the man that's going to get you killed.

That's a nice little cluster fuck waiting to take us both out, isn't it? I don't know what he's thinking. I don't even know what the hell it is that he wants. Sex? A relationship? A go-ahead to bum smokes off me without asking?

Funny side note- I don't remember sex. It's something that's just not there, is all. It's pretty far fetched to think I'd be a virgin. Even I'd piss myself laughing at the notion. But still, I don't remember it. Hell, I didn't remember my middle name until I finally got curious enough to pick through the packet James put together for me. Guess it's not such a shocker when you take that into consideration.

It's been four years since I thawed out back in Noachis and I learned early on that attachments of any kind always short hair someone, and it's usually going to be me. It's really just best not to bother. Besides, even if Whitney hadn't faked his death before I'd done more than a kiss on the cheek, I'm still not sure he was willingly batting for my team.

Linda used to claim it was a good thing- the not remembering. According to her it "saved me from recalling instances of the savagery of the male gender and the varied inflictions they visit upon us poor delicate womenfolk". Linda was good people, she did the best she could by me, but she had a daddy issue or two and I was nothing if not her pet project.

You'd think I'd have learned a few lessons about men. You really would think so, but you'd be wrong. Otherwise, I wouldn't be weighing pros and cons in my head and bailing in the middle of an afternoon breakfast when I'm afraid I might be too close to making a decision.

Jet can run his own damned errands. I don't even know where a supplier would be and this is his damned town anyway. And I should have told him to find a cat box for George. Ein's old one is falling to shit and literally. I'll clean up after the little fluffer to a point, but when that starts including sweeping up cat turds with a broom I draw a line.

"And just what are you thinking about?" Oh, great. The jackass.

"Cat turds."

"Egh" Spike saddles up next to me, hands perpetually jammed in his pockets and slouching so much he might as well move into a bell tower.

"Says the guy who pissed blood in the toilet and didn't even flush."

"Once. It happened once, Faye. It's time to let go."

"It was disgusting."

"Well, I'm sorry my ruptured kidney offended you."

"As you should be. Now what the hell do you want? You're supposed to be running errands."

"And so are you." I don't bother even looking at the ass. I don't want to deal with this now. I don't want to deal with this ever.

The least he could do is offer me a cigarette.

"So, a little birdie told me a secret." What game is this?

"Oh?" I still haven't looked at him, and I can tell it's bugging him. He keeps leaning further into my peripheral. So, I walk faster.

"Uh huh. And this little birdie also had a present."

"Spike! You must be so happy! A brain of your very own!"

"Har, har, Romani." He steps in front of me easily and stares me down. "It's a bounty. An easy one." Thank mercy. We haven't had a decent haul since before that shitty Alyns job. He's got the data pad out with the info already pulled, but yanks it away when I reach for it. This is probably what Linda was referring to when she said all men were created useless.

"What the hell, Spike. If you want it for yourself just fuck off and quit bugging me." Honestly, this man must get a high off of pissing me off.

"I don't want it for myself. It's for the both of us. It's a peace offering." He holds it up high, wiggling it out of my reach. The temptation is more than there to kick his shin, grab it and run. Come to think of it, most days I find myself having that impulse.

"A peace offering?" I don't believe that tripe for a minute. There's an angle. There is _always _an angle.

"That's right." His face is too close to mine and I curse myself when I actually step backwards. "You accept and we play nice. I'm not saying I'm done trying to talk about this, but I'll back away. You, in return, can the passive aggressive shit." And with that he tosses me the data pad without getting an agreement.

19 million. Not bad for an errand day.

"Fine, lead the way." I maneuver around him and toss back the pad. "But you're still a lunkhead."

I typically hate the techno-dweeb jobs. They're boring as hell and the spend the entire time from pick up to drop off blubbering and crying, all but bartering off the souls of their mothers if you'll just pretty please let them go. But after getting knifed by a sex vendor last job, boring is exactly what I need.

Plus, I'm still not completely comfortable with using the accounts James set me up with. Never thought in a million years I'd actually avoid gutting copious funds that were laid out for me, but there it is.

It just seems like a buy off. Which of course it is. And I get it, I do. But I'm still weirded out by it. However, 19 million will go along way towards some consolatory shopping. Even if I have to share it with Spike.

He actually has a pretty nice smile. Not that I'd openly admit it.

-----

One thing you learn early on in this field of work is that you can never truly peg where you'll find your hits hiding. You think bounty and you think scum. You think scum and you think run down buildings, back alleys, hookers with vestigial tails…

But bounties come in all shapes and sizes. Just like one of those stupid songs they used to teach us in school, the ones with the choruses that taught us that we're all pink under the skin.

We're all just meat under the skin.

Anyway, thinking that a bounty is going to fit the stereotypical bad guy type cast is what'll keep you from actually catching them. Hell, when I got black mailed into that whole chip fiasco I was carrying 50k worth of designer goodies. That I'd actually paid for.

Never did get those back. Pity, that jacket was killer.

So, it isn't really all that big a surprise when the place Spike leads us to is your typical 20 year old manufactured multi unit. Apparently the twerp is some kind of conspiracy theorist, aliens and crazy stuff like that. The little idiot goes and hacks Martian State News announcing that superior beings from Buttcrack 9 or something were responsible for the Gate Incident and that it was all some experiment gone wrong that had to do with time travel. There was also something about Chihuahuas. I thought it was funny as hell when it happened four months ago.

Martian State issued statements saying it was just a hoax, but apparently they cared enough to issue a bounty- something to do with sponsorship clauses. So our friendly little Mulder wannabe hot tails it to the Jovians to hide. Whatever. As long as it means I get a new pair of heels by dinner time, I'm down.

We aren't stopped when we enter the housing complex and a couple people even smile at us while we search out the apartment number. There's holiday wreaths on the door knockers and puppies barking behind mail slots. It's all very neighborly and after a year and a half spent almost continuously starside on a ship, it's a little unnerving.

Even on the easy pick ups you always make sure you have your weapon. Come to think of it, most of the easy ones will just come along peacefully the second you show them you've got heat. It's the one's that aren't afraid of guns you've got to worry about. In those cases you just make sure you have medical insurance.

You have to wonder at the kind of people we are to be carrying our pieces on a day where we're supposed to be grocery shopping. But I try not to think what that says and try to decide between stiletto peep toes or summer wedges.

Jet's gonna be pissed we didn't do a damned thing he told us to.

"This is where our little space alien lives." Spike's staring at the door placard, finger corked in his ear. Disgusting.

"_You're _the space alien, Spike." He ignores it and knocks. No answer. Knock again. Repeat as needed.

He turns back to me and smiles with a sweep of his hand. "Ladies first."

"Uh huh." I maneuver around him. And here I present for your consideration Faye's Steps To Kicking In A Bounty's Front Door. Aim for just below the lock, use a side strike and fall into the kick with a bent knee. Presto! I've just completed a breaking and entry. Now you try!

I ignore the ache in my thigh as the door swings in and turn to Spike so I can gloat. "Easy as cards."

And then we hear it. The pop. You can never mistake the sound of a pressure release for anything but. Oh, fuck. Oh, hell.

Spike reaches out to grab me away from the kicked in door but we both know it's a worthless effort.

When the explosion hits all I can think about is how strange the sensation of your skull vibrating is. And then I think about nothing.


	17. I Know Very Well

-1Hey guys! I'd just like to say thank you so, so much for all the awesome comments I've gotten for Passive. You guys are awesome! I'm sorry it's taken so long to get this one out but my life has been kinda crazy with travel and everything, plus I've been pretty sick the last week and a half or so. This one is kinda short, but I hope you still like it. I was feeling pretty guilty for such a huge gap between chapters.

-Red Bullet

Passive Chapter Seventeen: I Know Very Well

Tenants are pouring into the hall to see what happened but their voices are far away and diluted, like I'm under water. My mind is wet and swimming and I haven't quite registered the pain yet, but I know it's coming. I know the drill.

Everything old is new. Everything new you've done four times before.

When the blow to your system is still fresh enough that you still aren't screaming, you think about stupid, irrelevant shit. Like dead ex-girlfriends. Then that gets replaced by the heat swelling in the palms of your hands while your stomach tries its damnedest to execute an escape through your ass.

Later on, you'll start to think about things like the fact that your shoulder is most definitely dislocated and the mechanics in your fake eye are fried to all shit from the frequency concussion- and honestly, I'm surprised that hasn't happened more often than the twice that it has. You think about the fact that you lost the bounty, because there's no way the little shit would have been sitting in there and you fell for it thinking it'd be an easy snatch. And then you think about the fact that you dragged one of your partners into it.

But, like I said, first comes the stupid, irrelevant shit.

Like how months back, on the car ride to Annie's place, Julia asked me about Faye. Actually, she straight out asked what Faye was like. And I clammed up. Like usual. The question spooked me too much and I ended up squandering the last minutes I'd ever have with Julia in near silence because I was being a little bitch over the fact my two existences were mingling. Meshing, even.

It was easy when it was Faye sticking her nose where it didn't belong. I could tell her to fuck off and she wouldn't have taken more than a superficial slight to it. Hell, she'd do the same when ever I got too nosy for her liking. There'd be a pout, a filched cigarette and that'd be the end of it until the next time she decided to bother.

But I didn't have that option with Jules. I couldn't tell her to mind her own business and I couldn't tell her that she wasn't welcome in my present any more than I was allowed back into my past.

If Julia had made it that day, if she'd survived and come with me like she said she wanted to, Faye would have split the second she realized what was what and she wouldn't have come back. I can tell you that much now and with as much certainty as the fact that shit stinks.

I wouldn't have blamed her either.

But Julia didn't survive. Some how I did. And for some reason, Faye stuck around.

I'm thinking about all this just before the dullness drains from my skull, and gets replaced by creeping, rolling nausea as the shock wears off. I have to fight not to puke right into my lap.

It was a bomb. Pressure release rig. Home made, but nice enough not to go off until it was supposed to. The job's door is blown out and dry wall and support struts are blown out and on top of us. The tenants are half dressed and either freaking out or staring dumbly at the sight of a gutted apartment and the two people who were slapped by said apartment's innards. No one's bothered coming over and checking on us and the fact doesn't really surprise me all that much.

Faye's at least ten feet away and unconscious. Her face is covered in blood, soaked in the shit, but head wounds always bleed like fuckers. Then I realize that I'm only reminding myself of the fact so I can calm the fuck down as I drag myself over to her.

I'm shouting something at the people but I have no idea what. They all just stare at me like idiots, but I hear sirens so I guess somebody here was able to pull their thumb out their ass long enough to dial up ISSP.

I start pulling the timber and shit off of Faye, or as much as a guy with a dislocated arm can. She's still not awake, and that's probably for the best. I've never had to deal with her being severely injured and I don't want to risk her fighting me trying to help her.

The pulverized drywall covering the both of us is making her look even paler than normal. Or maybe it's the blood loss. I have no damned idea. There's a pretty angry looking gash chopped into her right bicep and following almost to her elbow and I'm willing to bet her ribs are gonna need a bone stitcher by the time this is over. Hopefully, any internal bleeding is minimal since those fucking medics are talking their sweet fucking time getting up here.

"Faye?" No response. "Valentine?" I realize I'm probably screaming it, but I don't know that I really care about that. I'll break her damned nose if that's what it takes for her to do something other than leak more blood all over me.

Medics in green uniforms finally appear at the stairwell, pushing people aside and trying to get to us. Questions start getting asked and a pair of them start prepping Faye to be moved. I'm struggling not to black out, at least long enough to get Jet on the phone, but I'm too fucking out of it to work my stupid comm.

They say people are only afraid of and for themselves. The bad stuff that happens to other people, we're only effected by it because of what it means for us. Someone goes away, we're sad because _we're_ gonna miss them. Same for if they die. Same for if they live and leave with someone else. There's probably some merit to the thought, but I can only think that it's something good all around when I notice Faye's eyes are open when they load us into the ambulance.

Even if they're open and scared.


End file.
